Seeing Beauty in Rust
My dad knew nothing about fixing cars, but that didn't dampen his enthusiasm for collecting them. I have fond memories of playing cops and robbers in whatever rusted-out engine-less derelict that graced our yard. One year it was a Model T Ford. Next it was a hearse, which did run, but only got seven miles to the gallon. His collection included an original Impala, a VW Beetle, a rust-colored van with doors that sometimes flew open while it was in motion, and his personal favorite: a Ranchero. It was sort of a car-truck. I rode in the back because there was only room for three in the cab. This was before seat belts and child safety laws. It was a bit awkward riding home from church in a dress, sitting on a wheel hub of the Ranchero, but Dad looked so happy in the driver's seat that I tried not to complain.
My mother had no reservations about complaining. She was never happy to have a car in various stages of disrepair sitting on cinder blocks in the backyard, but my brothers and I saw the vehicles as wonderful playthings, better than fancy swing sets or a sand box choked with weeds. From toddlerhood we knew what it felt like to sit behind the wheel and use our imaginations--something my own indoor, plugged-in children are sorely lacking.
The rusty cars had character, like my dad. To this day I loathe HOAs that forbid cars on cinder blocks in the yard. They have no imaginations.
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