The Cam Davis Group
Words & Music: John Jensen · Produced by Carl Franklin
Recorded 2022–2026 at PWOP Studios, New London, CT
Cowgirl Trilogy:
— end of Cowgirl Trilogy —
Cover art: AI at Lorna Mac's · Design: Good Sponge
©2026 John Jensen. All Rights Reserved
In 1949, four years before I was born, my father bought a used 1940 Chevrolet Master Deluxe 2 door sedan. In 1958 he bought a brand-new Chevrolet Belair 4 door sedan with a rare 348 cubic inch V8 engine with a 4-barrel carburetor. To help finance the purchase he sold the ’40 Chev.
In 1960, because he wanted a more economical car to drive to work, he repurchased the ’40 Chev. He was disappointed in the poor condition he found the car in just two years after he’d sold it, but bought it anyway, better the devil you know than don’t. He had the cylinders re-bored, replaced the pistons and rings, and repainted the car a light green with a white top. We named the car the Green Hornet.
When I got my license in 1969, I drove the Belair for a while. My father thought better of this and assigned me the ’40 Chev. The Belair could get up to 120 mph. The ’40 Chev could get up to a max of 70 mph. I know this because I did get the Belair up to 120 mph.
In the 20th century, having a car was a rite of passage for any teenager. Along with this came the responsibility to learn how to change spark plugs, re-gap them, set the points on the distributor, replace the rotor, change the oil, change a flat tire, check the oil, the water, the gauges, etc. If you didn’t learn this stuff and you got stuck — well, with no cell phones you were on foot and hitchhiking to the nearest place that had a phone. It happened, but you did all you could to avoid it. That meant learning how an internal combustion engine worked and how to fix it, or at least how to get it to a garage where it could get fixed.
The ’40 Chev had a 3-speed manual transmission. The shifter was on the steering column and the gears shifted in the shape of an H. Reverse upper left, first gear lower left, second gear upper right and third gear lower right. Neutral was in the middle of the H.
The gears were not synchro-meshed. If you missed a gear, you ran the risk of stripping the teeth on the gears and damaging the transmission. When shifting between first and second there was a jog in the middle of the shift as you passed the middle of the H to get to the upper right position where second gear was. In order to not miss the shift and not damage the transmission, often in the middle of the shift the driver would pause the shift, disengage and reengage the clutch pedal to facilitate a smoother shift. This maneuver is called “double clutching.” After hitting second gear it was fun to floor the gas pedal and rev up the RPMs, then drop — or rather slam — the shifter down into 3rd gear.
We sold the car in 2015. We had held onto it until my father passed that same year. He had done a ground-up restoration in the 1990s. By 2015 the car needed another paint job. I’m sure it’s still on the road today, putting smiles on the faces of those who see it.
Papa Joe Fritch was my grandfather-in-law. He was born in 1905 to immigrant parents from either Czechoslovakia or Germany — no one really knows. He had an 8th grade education which in the 1960s was equivalent to a 12th grade education, and today, a college degree. He excelled in math. He was a carpenter by trade and a family man by choice and instinct. He was a strict utilitarian. In an age where using what you had could make the difference between eating or not, he was accustomed to making do. He was a very clever man who used what wits God gave him to create, save and share. All essential habits of Depression Era folks. He was independent to a fault. But never mind his faults, he had ‘em like it or not. As you can see in the photos the clothes he wore were for wear, not show. If he lost a sock, he’d wear the other sock with another that didn’t match. Why throw away a perfectly good sock?
His carpentry didn’t pay much money. But still he managed to save. He didn’t save his money in a sauerkraut can — he used a bank. Even so, if you saw him on the street in his tattered and unmatched clothes, you’d be tempted to give him some money. No need. If you needed $100,000.00, he’d loan it to you at 6% interest. And without calculators, computers or a smart phone, he’d write out the amortization schedule showing the interest, principal and balance payments.
Papa Joe died in March 1999 at the age of 93, leaving his family — including grand and great grandchildren — all he had. He worked hard all his life and saved harder. He lived and worked for his family. Never complained about not having enough. He always had enough… well, except hot water!
Lona Lee (née Davis) was born in 1898 in Eden, Texas. She was married to Asa Lee in 1917. They were my maternal grandparents. They had three children, two boys and a girl. My mother, the youngest of the three, was born on her mother’s birthday, Dec. 21, 1923. She was named Lona after her mother. Unfortunately, my grandmother contracted tuberculosis about a year and a half later. She succumbed to the consumption, as it was called back then, on May 25, 1927. At just 28 years old she left a family heartbroken. Her husband, Asa, was so grief stricken he sold the ranch, left the children with relatives, and took off to find a reason to live. He found religion along the way and in 1929 married Pearl Seay (Cee) in Rabun, Georgia. That same year he finally returned to Texas to bring his children with him to join his new wife and new life as a Preacher in Georgia.
Asa was a tall man. He had a gentle disposition but his temperament, governed by 19th century discipline, was austere. After my grandmother had passed he lost all interest in the world. He devoted his life to his faith and took a vow of poverty — not a very good thing for his children. During the week he was a sharecropper and, on the weekends, he was the Preacher.
The drastic change in lifestyle from ranch kids to the Preacher’s kids was difficult for my mother and her two older brothers. When World War Two broke out the children left Georgia to help Uncle Sam. My mother was “Rosie the Riveter.” She had moved to Connecticut and gotten a job as a welder, helping in the war effort building submarines. For my mother home was always Texas, but as long as my Grandfather Lee was alive, she’d make the pilgrimage to Georgia.