This is Old Joe. No, it is not a person nor even some typical
car that one usually names. He is a
rusted old truck that has spent many of years in this spot and against this tree. I discovered him by chance one day during the
fall. It was long into the fall and the
trees were bare as the last of the leaves started drying up and finding their
place on the ground.
I was immediately
drawn to him, because it was as if he was calling my name. I say this because I had walked that path
many of times. Many of times after
leaves had began to fall and for some reason I had never noticed him
before. This day was different. It was as if a magnetic force was pulling me
in and so I turned. There he sat amongst
all the dried leaves and the bare trees.
His beautiful rust was glimmering in the sun and the rubber of his tires
reflected the rays. He was calling for
attention.
I have a thing for old
trucks and old buildings. Those
abandoned icons of life long before. I
am not sure what it is about them that draw me in, but they do. Maybe it is the unknown history that reaps
from their structure or maybe it is the untold stories that they hold. Maybe it is just purely the creativity of my
own imagination that they manage to pull out.
Whatever it is, every one finds a place in mind. Old Joe, here, is different. He found a special place in my heart.
How is odd is
that. To say that some rusted old truck
that is hidden amongst the trees in some metro park has a special place in my
heart. He does, though. For some reason he just makes me smile and I
think of a new story behind his mystery every time I walk this trail.
I am not sure how Old
Joe came to be, but he has been for quite a few years. It is not hard to tell that he has seen his
better days or hat his best days were probably way before my parents. It also is not far off to know that this park
was most likely built around him and not the necessarily the other way around.
I’m not sure why they chose to leave him, but I’m glad that they did.
When I first saw Old
Joe, I was in need of something.
However, I’m always in need of something. Still, I was deep in the midst of a rut
trying to get back to the basis of figuring out my dreams and passions. So,
when I walked upon Old Joe that day, it was as if a door had been
unlocked. Thoughts and creativity began
flowing as I pondered Old Joe’s existence.
How he had come to live in this place? Hoping whoever had been driving
him survived? I began piecing my own
little stories of his life together.
That was something I
hadn’t done in a while. Made up a story
in my head and I missed it. I missed it
something fierce. I had always loved writing. Creating stories and bringing them to life in
the world of paper (or computer as times have long changed). It had been a while since I had written
anything, though. I mean there were a
few less than desirable poems, short stories that never went anywhere, blogs
that were hardly read, and stories that I never finished. To say that I had truly written anything, that
I cannot say as I hadn’t truly written much of anything. Most of what I had written at the time, well,
it kind of felt like I had just thrown it together.
It is strange what
things can touch us and in what ways they touched us. I believe in energy and all that tree loving
hippie kind of stuff, but I also believe in God. Maybe it was his energy, maybe it was some
other kind of energy, or maybe it was a just a “right place, right time” kind
of energy. Whatever it was, it brought
out something else that I needed. To be
reminded of how important dreams like writing and photography were to me. I know that sounds jack nut crazy, but for
the first time in a long time I had been able to think about something other
than this treacherous path that constantly had me feeling in a rut. I for a moment could create stories again and
feel as if that was my element.
I cannot help, but
thank Old Joe for that. He gives me a
new story every time I visit him (and yes, I make it a point to stop by for a
few minutes). When I first met him, the
old man that was driving him had slid in the mud trying to get back to his
barn. It had been pouring down rain all
day and the mud got the best of him. He
slid off the road and slammed in the tree.
The windshield busted inward from the impact and the old man smashed
against the steering wheel. After a
while people came looking for him and found him just in time. The old man survived, but Old Joe was left in
this final resting place.
That was the first
time. The second time a teenage boy had
taken the truck out long after his mom and daddy had gone to bed. He picked up a few friends and they went off
to do what teenage boys have done for decades.
While speeding down the old dirt road, they forgot about the curve and ended
up against the tree. Bumps and bruises
along with a few cuts from the shattered glass is all that they walked away
with. Or at least until their parents got a hold of them and then it was a
completely different story.
The story has changed
many of times. Like the time a couple
was traveling home in the snow and getting caught off guard by a patch of ice
or man driving home swerving to miss a deer.
My personal favorite is the version of a medium aged man that was doing
a favor for a friend. The friend, unbeknownst to the man, was involved with the
mob. The man, he was just in the wrong
place at the wrong time. Driving home
after a long day’s work and having picked up his friend who asked if he could
stay the night. Turned out the friend
was hiding from the mob, but you can never hide from the mob. The man refused to pull over and they ended
up running and missing a curve. The man
made it, they always made it. I prefer
the happier endings.
I don’t know if any of
those versions are true. Or even close to be true. I just know that Old Joe sits attached to the
tree. His fender dented where the trees
meets. The windshield, what is left of
it, lays shattered on the rusted floorboards.
The old engine sits in its entirety, but aged from weather and
time. His bed has long been removed, if
there was one. His Goodyear tires, well now there is a marketing image. Those
tires are still intact and could probably roll if needed. The rusted hood has
rusted through and was once intact until other park visitors stumbled upon him
and decided to do a little bit more than look at him. Still, the rust shimmers
when the sun shines and his mystery is still alive.
So, with that Old Joe
is a favorite of mine. I named him,
because it just seemed that he needed a name and he seemed like an Old
Joe. I wish others would just look at
him and not really mess with rusted shift bar or the doors, one of which barely
hangs on and the other which fell off long ago.
I definitely wish they would have left his hood alone. As of today, there is nothing left of it to
protect that beautifully rusted out old engine.
Alas, those are just things I wish and not things I can change. I feel protective of him, because he is a
piece of history with a story to tell. I
like him, because he is able to take me back to a place that is so less
complicated than the one I’m in now. I
like him, purely because he is a rusted old truck sitting hidden with the woods
and only visible when the fall season has set in and the leaves have seen the
end of their days.
The End
~SMH~
Copyright 2012 (picture and written work)
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