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On the freeway
driving through what I now call is the “Valley of the Slumbering Giants”*, my
eyes wandered to gleaming silver BMW, pale green Prius, white Honda--all passing us.
Thundering diesels roared as they pulled their loads up the hills.
Thundering diesels roared as they pulled their loads up the hills.
John was driving,
listening to Rush; he switched back to Roger Hedgecock, and then to music of
the 60s. So my eyes and thoughts were my
own.
A big hulking diesel
pulled up to my side and I noted that its load was open for all to see. Its flatbed carried stacks and stacks of
crushed cars, strapped to a ‘fare-thee-well’ with red straps. How
many high? I wondered.
I attempted to count
the stacks but failed.
From top to bottom, I
got lost at six. The first six were
predictable rusty clunkers, more than ready to head to the car cemeteries.
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The next few were horribly twisted results of
accidents. Did the people live? Those
made me shiver.
Then, at the very
bottom of the first stack, was a white mustang with straight red
stripe along the side. Not a scratch on
the sides, not a dent in the fenders—perfect, recently off the showroom floor
or new car lot. But it was now flattened.
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White mustang convertible, wow. How you must have reached speeds, passed
mundane cars, and laid down mile after mile…until this happened.
What had
happened? I didn't want to know.
*I used to call it “the Valley of the Burial Mounds”.
