|Drive, she said|
This photo originally shared on Instagram
They don't make them like this anymore. Full-sized, body-on-frame, V8-powered wagons were the people movers of an earlier generation, a role since taken over by minivans, then SUVs and crossovers. Woody wagons are even more rare, as if anyone today could believe that a vinyl applique inside plastic frames glued haphazardly to the sheetmetal was once a sign of automotive opulence.
It wasn't and it isn't, yet in the waning days of 2018, in this sad spot under a sad complex of buildings where people like us come for almost exclusively sad reasons, it somehow works.
As soon as I see it, I'm reminded of the woody wagons of my own childhood - including the ones my dad drove. My wife graciously allows me to shoot the wheeled whale while she walks ahead. We're here for her father-in-law, not for spontaneous parking garage shoots, but she more than anyone knows why I need to do this. Because despite the reason for us being here - or perhaps because of it - we need to look harder into the nooks and crannies for moments of joy, for the little things that will replace, if only for a blink, the overwhelming darkness that's settled over us this year.
On this morning, in this dimly lit, grey-tinged place, we found that elusive moment of joy. I hope whoever owns this rolling piece of American history appreciates its ability to make complete strangers smile, remember, and think. Because connectedness takes on many forms, no matter where you may be, or what you may drive.
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