America's Next Great Racing Journalist Meets The "Angry Face Car"
And most my memories Have escaped me Or confused themselves with dreams
I wonder what John will remember about the day he met the angry face car. If he'll remember anything at all.
I should have known At your age in a string of days The year is gone But in that space of time It takes so long
I have these vague memories of the Volvo my mother had when I was four years old. There's an odd vignette in my head of going to see the '75 Granada my father crashed on New Years' Eve in '76 (I think). I would have been about John's age now. But why did we go to the junkyard? Did that even happen? The replacement car was a Monarch. I've long since lost the ability to remember what color it was.
I'm not one to ever pray for mercy Or to wish on pennies in the fountain or the shrine But that day you know I left my money And I thought of you only All that copper glowing fine
So much of my childhood feels difficult to reach, impossible to remember, not even real. There are days, months, years lost. But some moments are etched with acid. Will this be one of those days for John? When I'm gone, will he have a memory associated with these photos? Or will it come as a surprise to him? If we don't remember it, did it really happen? Did it really matter?
But for the record, there was a day. And on that day, I found myself under a canopy of trees, with the rain spotting the windshield and the urgency of the big V-6 throwing me forward in a convoy of cars at full speed and no regrets, and I sort of fell in love with a car, and when you fall in love you want to introduce the object of your love to your family, and my family is very small, really, it's just me and my son, he calls it "our T-Rex family", and so I brought my love to him, and he said it was the "angry face car". One day I will be old and lonely and I'll hold onto this day, until it fades. Then the images will be of something that nobody remembers. Which, when you think about it, is both reassuring, and sad.