Art & Inspiration The Reason why It was my dream car.

My daddy ,Kenny used to tell a legendary story about when he was young........

There is this feral ideology of North Carolina Culture ,that I have, that puts it on the plato of biblical truth. A truthful religion ,if you will, that encomp***es the sted fast nature of the North Carolina en***y that is ancestrally engrained . The people, their parents , grandparents , etc that have been proven for hundreds if not in some cases thousand of years to be non nomadic. Where all five scenes can at times play an intricate roll in memories , stories, and real life realities. So as I fondle this notion I am reminded of a good story that perpetuates the truth that I know to be the North Carolina Culture.
The glistening sun rained down on the hot sandy rows of a large field laced with the upright monuments of bright leaf tobacco. Hotter than seven hells , I would say, and the only time I believe where there were literal accounts of the devil himself requesting a drink of water due to that same oppressive heat. The smell of curing tobacco was already thick in the air as the smoke pummeled from tobacco barns near the edge of the loblolly pine backdrop . When mixed with the humidity it gave a peculiar sense that a Godly aromatic perfume was falling from the heavens. Neither the fields, the sun, nor the tobacco was a respecter of persons no matter a persons color or their stature. Over a ways back there was this Indian boy priming his heart out , with every leaf tucked under his right arm , his left hand quickly supplying another leaf for the bundle. Wearing a pair of worn out leather brogans with replaced soles that came from a poplar tomato crate that his daddy had nailed on them so he could make it till Christmas. The sweat running down his face, over his overalls and finally finding its way on to the rows gave evidence to where he had just been like breadcrumbs an a trail and while looking up for a moment at the sun as if to remind himself that in fact the sun was hot ,over in the distance he began to at first hear what he thought was thunder.
As he looked there bouts in that direction of the booming noise it became louder and louder with slight reflections in sound and prominence . When both the anticipation and curiosity was more than he could bare , the first visual evidence came into view. It was his older brother Charles driving a white 1961 Chevrolet two door Impala and even at distance the 409 engine emblem shined like the pot of gold at the end of a rainbow. Slamming on the brakes and slightly fishtailing across the sandy dirt road Charles exited the car and hollered at him saying, “Hey Kenny!!!!!! look at what I’m thinkin bout buyin, it was over at Carneil Marrises used cars.Wanna take it for a drive?” Well Hells Bells Charlie, you know I do”, Kenny replied. Kenny then jumped into the white stallion of an automobile. Placing one hand on the steering wheel, one foot on the clutch , and one hand on the glorious shifter knob that had been in-trusted to Chevrolet by the Hurst corporation and embossed with the 4 speed shifting pattern , Kenny was off. Burning rubber, gravel and a little bit of leaded gasoline Kenny tore through the gears like a sharp butcher knife through an old dishrag. Ignoring the speedometer ,only paying attention to tachometer ,and the sound of the motors hum he approached what, in his mind ,he would consider turn one. Barreling into the deep ditch banked turn he hit third gear than second gear again causing the rear tires to break traction and provide a holy dust storm to the other labors in the surrounding field. “ If Kale Yarborough could see me now Id have a job for life ,” he said to himself. Into the second strait away he gained more momentum and more p***ion. The witnesses that were there that day said, all you could see was the hood and front tires bobbing up above the tobacco every time he shifted gears. Next up was turn two. Kenny was hot and heavy on the exelorator and this turn wasn’t near as sharp as turn one . So ,with one down shift to third gear he was around the turn and onto to the 3rd strait away. With grit in his teeth ,the inside of car covered in dust , and a firm grip on the shifter knob he p***ed to the inside to make it around a tobacco worm that apparently was having engine failure . Before he knew it ,turn four was in his sites. Down shifting to almost a crawl, he met turn four like a soldier that had just come home from war and was seeing his wife for the first time in a year. Giving it a big kiss he came around with four on the floor and maybe a fifth under the seat. The only thing that could stop him now would be reentry into the atmosphere. laying down the peddle for the last time he gave another shift. The speedometer gave up the proverbial ghost and buried its needle in the right hand side of its view gl***. “ The last strait away “, he said to himself as the G forces slung his body into the red nogahyde bench seat and as he ran out of gears. Heaven and earth were colliding , the paint of the hood was peeling away from reentry , and time was slowing down. The percussion of the lava fueled monster sent shock waves through the fields turning sand to gl***, oxygen to water, and pre curing the tobacco as it still sat in the fields . Home base was coming up quickly. Ah the finish line finally. as he approached ,the time to downshift was paramount to bring this rocket to a stop. All of the sudden as he hit the clutch and reeled the shifter to drop from 4th to third he missed ,slamming the transmission in to reverse. In the flicker of a hummingbirds wings the sound of that motors hum was replaced by the crunching of pieces of burnt and broken gears tumbling in the aluminum housing that was once a transmission. As the car slowed and reached its destination only a few feet from where Kennys adventure began ,he open the car door ,with engine still running and hollered,”Charlie!!!!!!! runs like a scalded dog.

 

Oh yeah, those were the days.

 

Great granddad had a tobacco barn that was better built than my present house...
and there's only one place hotter than a baccy field and that's a pine thicket in Fort Jackson SC
Daddy told me about killin cutworms, too