Yesterday afternoon we attended yet another local carshow. The Summer has been filled with these events—yet another factor in my realization and acceptance that I may really like living in Southern Missouri.
It’s always interesting to hear what people have to say as they make their rounds. There’s usually a range of guesses on the year of the car. Most get it wrong until they 1. talk to the owner or 2. find something that identifies the year like a vanity plate or window sticker. There’s usually some guy judging details—the color is wrong, the body work is bad or, as in the case of the For Sale sign on my ’68 Impala, “I wouldn’t give $500 for that car.” And then there are usually a group of simple admirers. People with compliments and questions. People like this great kid I overheard yesterday talking to his mom.
“Hey mom,” he said as they walked up behind me.
“Yes,” she responded, as if maybe she was dreading another question.
“All these cars are old, right?” he asked as she nodded her head yes. “But they all look, like, new cars?” he said in a confused tone.
In one statement he nailed the beauty and the challenge of the old car obsession. The conundrum of wanting something old that will essentially serve the same purpose as something new (run, drive, stop, etc). His mom had a perfectly logical explanation, but something tells me that kid will be contemplating his question until he’s the proud owner of his own restoration project one of these days.
A nearly perfect ’56 Chevy. I suspect this car may be nicer today than it was when it came off the assembly line.