Archive
08/07/08 - (2)
'41 Cadillac Sixty Special I grow old...I grow older than cold-rolled steel Molded, by rank-and-file union laborers, Into the most beautifully streamlined automotive sculptures Ever to come off GM's Detroit Cadillac Division assembly line, In the form of 1941 Sixty Specials.
Indeed, I do grow old, these days of my late sixties, When I'm almost too blinded, by cataracts, to see the road, Keep cruising at a maneuverable 50 mph, A threat, at that, to traffic, passing me, at 70, 80, No longer relying on carburetors and spark plugs.
And yet, the newer models still fill up at gas stations, Just as I do. (I would have thought that, by now, Transportation would be hydrogen-, solar-, electric-powered, Not fossil-fueled, dependent on foreigners bent on our demise.)
Tonight, I'll drive home, park in the garage, Below my WWII duplex, on York and Glenridge, Where, for lo these many decades, I've lived a recluse's existence, Content to flaunt my navy-blue body, silver roof, brightmetal, Whenever my owner inserts his key, in my ignition,
Presses my starter button, which sets my precision V-8 purring, Asks me to take him to his desire's destinations. What most amazes me is this: Time's abrasive corrosion, its insidious pitting and rust, Has failed to make inroads on my frame, coach, motor. If anything, I'm as fit, in 2008, as I was at birth, in April 1941, Just prior to the invasion of Pearl Harbor, As I was on graduating from Yale, in 1963, As I was when I became a father, in the seventies, And I'm still conveying my owner here and beyond yon and back.
I grow old . . . almost as old as Stanley Steamers, Tin Lizzies, Those Gatsby Packards and Stutz Bearcats, Sleek Pierce-Arrows, Duesenbergs, Cord Boattail Speedsters, Surviving, as I always will, in the guise of a '41 Sixty Special — Caddy's finest, then and now, forever.
08/07/08 - (2)
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