By Nathan Bagster
Some time ago, I took a trip to a local yard in Keene, Buffum’s Auto Salvage, I’m sure you know the place. I had been there countless times throughout my years, plucking used parts for whatever junk my buddies and I were working at the time. Hell, I almost blew up a battery there once, back when I first started to learn about wrenching.
Good times.
Now normally, there aren’t a lot of amazing finds outside of the realm of dime-a-dozen rigs; Most of the Cherokee’s in Keene, Neon’s and Subaru’s, half a dozen box trucks. You know the drill. But that day, I stumbled across this gem. I couldn’t tell you the exact year, as I didn’t think to go over and check the tag at the time (and I’m sure some of you will be able to tell exactly from looking at it), but my best guess is ’78 or so.
There was just something about it, a certain perfect melancholy stuck in time, that drew me in.
The way it sat, all four tires flat in the dirt, hoping for someone to breathe a bit of fresh air into them. That double color paint: desolate chipped brown, and the drowned-out blue, fading into a sunbaked patina. Everything about the car grumbled its way to the end, right down to the trim hanging off the front fender, disappointed that its glue couldn’t hold on just a little longer.
And yet, just beyond, there were two other sentiments: that of a past life and a life that could be.
Somewhere, sometime, this Camaro had been a powerhouse of its day, running the streets with reckless abandon. It had ‘hunted down Mustangs’ as GM claimed they were want to do. And it had skidded into a grave with scars and stories to tell.
Then, just after that, there was a promise of another life. One where some young kid, much like I was, could whisk it away. Would dump every nickel and dime they had in their bank account and bust every knuckle on their way to doing so, just to put a little more life back into it. And she would once again claim those tight corners and bomb down the straights.
And I thought of my Grandfather, father, myself, and my son. All different generations with scars and stories to tell, and many more to make. I was reminded of why so many of us bust up our bodies and wash the dirt from our hands and I had to take it in. Had to capture that moment.
I left the yard that day with more than a handful of parts for some car, I couldn’t even tell you which, I left with this photo and that moment of self-reflection that will last until I’m in an old junkyard, just waiting to see where the next journey will be…
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