1983 Monte Carlo

My husband said goodbye to a dream today. An '83 Monte Carlo kind of dream. A dream that took up coveted space in our old garage and ruined the grass in our new yard. A dream that started with a hundred dollar bill and visions of a father-son project. That dream is no more.

It was time for the car to go. Actually, it was past time. It should have went with just about everything else when we made the Big Move. It didn't, though. Somehow that hunk of junk (with a perfectly straight body, or so I've been told) made it's way onto a car dolly and was pulled nine hundred miles in an effort to keep the dream alive. Some dreams just don't stand a chance.

He'd been talking about getting rid of it for quite some time now. It had already killed one patch of grass on the back forty (okay, back one acre) and was well on it's way to destroying another section of the prized grass that we have so much trouble keeping alive. Plus, we needed the money. And for some reason, today became the day for the car to go.

He looked so sad. I walked out just in time to help him hook up the trailer to the truck and for one last time, I heard the stories of how he had found the car and all the work he had already put into it. The only thing left was a motor, transmission, paint, interior... and as usual, I stopped listening at this point because in my mind, I'm thinking only?? Sounds like a lot to me, but then again, it wasn't my dream. Maybe when it is your dream, the amount of work doesn't compare with what the finished result will be.

With a final sigh and thoughts of what might have been, he left for the junk yard. He could have gotten more for it by selling it for scrap metal, but like any good car-loving man, he was hoping that someone else would find what he had started and finish the job. Perhaps in that way, the dream would live on.

Three hours later he returned with an empty trailer and a pocket full of money. I found him outside moving around concrete blocks where the car had been. While he cleaned up and shook his head at the sight of all that dead grass, he told me what had become of his beloved '83 Monte Carlo.

He made it as far as the parking lot of the junk yard. Before he could drive through the gates, another old truck with three old men were pulling out. Hanging his head out the window, one old boy hollered, "What year is that Monte?"

Less than an hour later, that Monte had found its way to a front yard in a run-down neighborhood. A teenage boy counted out a fist-full of five's and ten's while his dad came up with the rest. A new dream had begun. Or maybe it was the continuation of an old dream. By the time my husband pulled off, he was promising he would swing back by sometime to see the dream realized.

He had so many dreams when he moved us out here. As odd as what it sounds to me, that Monte Carlo represented all that he hoped to build in making a new life for his family. I guess that's why it was so sad to watch him have to let go. I'm pretty sure he's going to be all right, though. There's already talk of a '67 Camaro.