My dad took cars for trade sometimes when a client couldn't pay a bill. That's how, when I was a kid, we ended up at different times with the '65 Mustang, the '67 Caddy and the sleek, square Mercedes whose age I can't remember. All were old, all had second homes at a one-man auto shop farther out in the sticks.
And all, I realize now, could be stars in vintage-auto fandangoes like the one that rumbled into Eureka yesterday evening. Old Town is a-stink with their curvy, angled, souped-up glory -- one-time homely grocery-getters turned comely chick-/dude-getters (we presume).
Oh, had I only hung on to one of the two beastly Travelalls that found harbor in our gravel drive along with the rest of our rotating, creaky car stock. I'd revv that squat hippo, let it release a massive car fart ... then at the next stop probably have to jump out, lift the hood and tighten the battery terminals to get it running again.
They're all still down there today.