Vintage Vehicle
She weren't no spring chicken, that's for certain. A '57 Chevy Bel Air, she was, cherry red paint faded to a blush in places, chrome pitted like an old man's grin. Sat low to the ground, too, practically kissin' the asphalt. Inside, the bench seats were cracked leather, held together more by hope and duct tape than anything else. Still smelled faintly of grandpa's pipe tobacco and somethin' sweet, like vanilla.
I remember him polishin' her every Sunday, rain or shine. Hummin' some old tune, clankin' around with his rags and waxes. He'd let me "help," which mostly involved smearin' the wax around like I was paintin' a masterpiece. Never complained though, just smiled and ruffled my hair. Called her "Betsy," he did. Said she was the only woman who never gave him lip.
Now, Betsy's been sittin' in my garage for nigh on ten years. Under a tarp, mostly. Life got in the way, y'know? Work, wife, kids... the usual song and dance. But every now and then, I'd pull back that tarp, just for a peek. The sight of her always took me right back to them Sunday afternoons, grandpa's smile, the smell of vanilla and tobacco.
Been thinkin' lately, though. Betsy deserves better than a tarp and a dusty garage. She needs the open road, the wind in her (figurative) hair, the rumble of that V8 engine singin' its song. Maybe it's time to dust her off, get her purrin' again. Maybe it's time to bring Betsy back to life. Gonna need a whole lotta elbow grease, but I reckon grandpa would be proud.
