By BENNY WADE



I went to see her today perhaps for the last time. It has been decades since I last laid eyes on her although I often pass within a quarter mile of her several times a day.

She remains unmoved from her resting place for the last half century. Although few people know she is there she can be found in an attractive little grove of trees at the edge of a pasture on my grandfather’s home place.

I’m not sure exactly what I hoped to see or to experience when I saw her again. The physical experience was what I expected but the uncertainty of the mental and emotional impact is what led me to her resting site on a cold windy autumn day.

I thought I might cry and I did. Despite the distorted configuration of her remains, if one possesses both the background and the imagination, she can be identified as a 1941 Chevrolet coupe.

Yet to even the most optimistic aficionado of antique cars the word restoration does not remotely enter the mind. She has no future except as a grisly reminder of the past for those few who still remember.

Her body was once a medium dark green with faded paint a residue of which could be seen if one wiped a white handkerchief across her surface. Some of the green is still recognizable.

When I knew her she had one black front fender and the other front fender was a nondescript hue which I cannot recall. Today both front fenders have been torn from the main body which sits crossways on the frame. Most of the frame protrudes from under what was once the right door.

Her motor and transmission and various other parts are scattered in disarray within the general proximity of the body. What’s left of the metal, which once held the seat, still holds a small sign which proudly proclaims, “Body by Fisher.”

A visual inspection plus a half dozen hefty blows to her body with a long handled hoe indicates surprisingly little rust and an unexpected metallic hardness. The body serves as a reminder of the strength and durability of pre World War II steel.

Behind her frame I found a broken ceramic buttermilk churn, an enamel hand washing basin minus the bottom, the walls of a number three washtub, and a rusted enamel covered pot which was euphemistically referred to as a slop jar.

Those who experienced rural country living during the lifetime of the ‘41 Chevrolet will recognize the utilitarian value of these items. As I found various other items of a bygone era I experienced a revelation. I was not merely surveying a mass of worthless junk. Instead I was examining symbols the meanings and significance of which deserve to be probed explored and remembered.

I next found a nearly empty large intact liquor bottle at which point the aforementioned tears began to flow. The discovery of a large number of liquor bottles of various shapes and sizes followed. Many of the bottles were broken. I found a small piece of a broken mirror which could still reflect a muted image for anyone who gazed into it. The symbolism overwhelmed me as I remembered the life which was broken by the contents of those and countless other bottles.

Before the battered ’41 Chevrolet came into our family my father was a super successful automobile salesman who drove a succession of gleaming new Chevrolets all redolent with new car smells. The last one was a glistening white 1953 Bel Air. Those were indeed “The days of wine and roses” for my father and mother and their two sons.

Daddy entertained friends galore and every night was a party. My father boasted that he could drink liquor and beer every night but the next morning he would always arise alert and sober and go to work. And so he did during these brief august days of my youth.

But alas the time came when alertness and sobriety were no longer the hallmarks of his mornings. A downward spiral into alcoholic addiction was accompanied by numerous job losses followed by misery and degradation for all four members of our immediate family. The words of the poet Ernest Dowson proved prophetic, “For they are not long. The days of wine and roses.”

Fifty-seven years later I realize the ’41 Chevrolet became for me a symbol of pain and loss. It represented loss of what once was coupled with longing for what might have been.

Several years before my mother died I wrote a song about the ’41Chevrolet and sang it to the tune of Jingle Bells at a family Christmas gathering. The intent was to lend a note of levity to the occasion.

Later my wife told me while I was singing the song my mother was crying. I regret causing my mother to cry. Heaven knows she had more than enough of her own memories of the ’41 Chevrolet to make her cry.

I also regret that it took me so many years to realize I was not the only person who experienced the pain of living with an alcoholic parent while growing up. I have been astonished at the number of readers who have said to me, “My father was also an alcoholic and I understand.” These are often people who have achieved success far beyond whatever they expected to become when they were young.

I have also learned that symbols can have either a negative or positive connotation. They can serve as reminders of bad or good depending upon the perspective of the beholder. I learned humor is a valuable balm to salve the hurt. But most valuable of all is the realization that others who suffer can benefit from knowing your story.

I quote Robert Frost: “The woods are lovely dark and deep but I have promises to keep and miles to go before I sleep.” I have a story that I feel compelled to tell and it is going to take a while to gather it and to compose it. In the meantime I probably will visit the ’41 Chevrolet again. There’s something about the ole girl which helps me organize the memories.