Marvin Collins, Doctor of Motors

Collins Garage as it appeared in the 1960s. Entrance on the right.

I moved to Norman, Oklahoma, in August of 1965.  My only transportation was my 1932 Plymouth Model PB business coupe, which I drove from my former Navy duty station in Groton, Connecticut, to Norman. I went by way of Milwaukee, where I had to attend a Navy indoctrination training program at Marquette University. Within a few weeks of my arrival, I decided to find a mechanic whom I would trust to work on my prized vintage car.

I spoke to a number of newly-made friends and colleagues at the University of Oklahoma and concluded that my best bet might be Marvin Collins, the owner of Collins Garage at 420-422 East Main Street in Norman.  The following Saturday, I drove my old Plymouth to that location and ventured through an open door.  I saw a lone mechanic bent over the front fender of a fairly new car.  I spoke after a short delay, "Would you happen to be Mr. Marvin Collins?"

   The man emerged and greeted me with a cigarette locked between his lips, "I sure am, and who are you?"  This began a friendship that would last many years.  He admired my car, asked how long I had owned it, told me that the early Plymouths were fine machines, and agreed to help me maintain it.  He was amazed that I had chosen to drive the car halfway across the country.

I learned from Marvin's business card that he jokingly referred to himself as "Marvin Collins, Doctor of Motors." I also realized that the trademark Chesterfield hanging from Marvin's lips was a permanent fixture.

Over many years of employing him to work on my cars, I realized that Marvin was a walking encyclopedia of automotive knowledge.  A specific example that comes to mind was the day I walked into the shop and he was working on a late 1940s Lincoln with its flathead V-12 engine.  The owner had rebuilt the carburetor, after which the car refused to start.  Out of frustration, he had towed the car to Collins Garage to see if Marvin could help.  Shortly after I walked in, Marvin got in the car, hit the starter, and the car burst into life.  He fidgeted with the carburetor to get the idle speed where it belonged, then turned off the key.  "Poor fellow that owns this didn't realize they made a design change halfway through the model year.  All it needed was a different economizer valve."  That's the kind of obscure information that resided in Marvin's head.  Keep in mind that this was a 20-year old car at the time.

Marvin was outspoken. He didn't mince words.  One day, I happened upon an early Saturday morning estate auction being conducted on a front lawn in an older neighborhood in Norman.  I registered as a bidder "just in case."  Before the auction concluded, the auctioneer announced that the family had owned three cars.  The first to be sold was a 1957 Cadillac Sedan de Ville with only 35,000 miles on its odometer.  It soon was mine at a hammer price of $735.00.  As a proud new owner, I immediately headed down to Marvin's to show off my new acquisition.

Marvin saw me pull in, walked around the car surveying its merits, then asked, "Is this yours?" I nodded. "Didn't talk to me before you bought it, did you?"  I didn't like what I was hearing.  "You're gonna pay me a lot of money if you keep driving this thing." 

It turned out that the 1957 Cadillac engine, a 365 cu. in. V-8 (shared with the Oldsmobile 98, I was to learn) had a fatal design flaw.  The webbing around some of the valve seats in the cylinder heads was too thin and would develop thermal stress crack over time. Marvin and I scoured the junkyards in and around Oklahoma City and acquired three spare "good" cylinder heads for each side of my engine, "just in case."

Sure enough, within a few months, I started to notice a rough idle and a compression check revealed which cylinder head had cracked.  Upon removing it, the crack was easy to spot. We retrieved one of the good heads, made sure everything was nominal, and installed it.  

I was at the garage just as Marvin was about to start the rebuilt engine for the first time.  It cranked over, started, and then produced a horrible loud metallic clattering sound.  Marvin instantly shut down the engine. His character as an honest man was then displayed. "There's something in one of the combustion chambers. That's my fault. Any costs from this point forward are on me," he said.

We later reconstructed what probably happened. After the cylinder head was installed, as well as the intake manifold, we concluded that a small washer on the workbench had adhered to Marvin's sweaty arm.  When he reached across the engine it dropped off of his arm and into one of the openings in the intake.  When the car started, that little washer was ingested through an intake valve and was bouncing around inside the combustion chamber. 

Marvin used a borescope to spot the culprit, removed the appropriate cylinder head for a through inspection and to remove the battered washer.  After completion of the reassembly, the car ran beautifully.  I had to replace one more cylinder head before I decided to sell that car.  Marvin, as usual, was right.

Marvin Collins was a rare breed -- incredibly knowledgeable in his chosen profession, honest as the day is long, and one of the most decent human beings you could ever ask for. He passed away in 1987 at the age of 66 and is buried in Norman.  I feel privileged to have benefitted from his skill and knowledge as a Doctor of Motors.  Even more, I feel blessed to have called him a friend. 

† RIP †