To this day, the coolest car I've ever known was our Ford Falcon.
What I understand now, at the time could only feel, was what made this the coolest car ever—wasn't what the car was—but what my father made it become.
Desperation isn't the word. Defiance isn't the word. In fact, there is no word. It was illusion that came from simple need. Patch the holes. Patch the rust. Tape fixes paper; it must also then, fix a car?
Measly need became might. A transformation. Getting away with something. Giving a joyful grade-school-finger. A challenge to all of Stark County. A challenge to not care.
I pity the fool driving off the lot in his new Beemer, past a car full of howling little league kids, triumphantly cruising in metal and tape. In a car that made no sense to anyone. Not even its passengers. It probably took decades for these poor fools to recover—seeing such pure joy blasting from our blue beast. To realize they aimed high, but should have shot low.
Makes me think about the leaky pot story, finding value and beauty in imperfection. Nothing is perfect in our life, we may as well make it beautiful. Wonderful and thought provoking poem.
True love for one's dad expressed beautifully. Keep writing. Thanks for sharing.
I am as happy sharing this now, as I was to have experienced it then. Thank you so much for your comment.
I congratulate you on such a beautiful and sensitive poem. Outstanding!
Thank you Chris. I wrote these as stories for my father before his passing - and decided to put them here in his honor. I am glad you enjoyed reading it.
In nostalgic memory of a great pop and a patched up beast of a Ford Falcon. I wish I had been there with those howling little league kids. Oh, reading your wonderful poem, I felt I was already there cruising in that car. Chip of the old uncle block you are, Batt!
So glad Madathil, that this is something you could visualise and share in.
do i guess correctly that your uncle Denis invited more than me to read your poem? don't forget his agent's fee! i liked this much more than what i've read from your uncle; you needn't tell him. he may suspect it will be so. " shot low" ....not in a negative sense i misread/mispronounced the title earlier. i'd spell it Tapemobile. nice, bri ;)
Hello Bri. glad you enjoyed this story I wrote for my father. The dash in the title *is* the tape. All best.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem
I pity the fool driving off the lot in his new Beemer, past a car full of howling little league kids, triumphantly cruising in metal and tape. In a car that made no sense to anyone. Not even its passengers. It probably took decades for these poor fools to recover—seeing such pure joy blasting from our blue beast. To realize they aimed high, but should have shot low....very beautiful poem