By BENNY WADE

I went to see her today perhaps for the last time. It has been decades since I last laid eyes on her although I often pass within a quarter mile of her several times a day.

She remains unmoved from her resting place for the last half century. Although few people know she is there she can be found in an attractive little grove of trees at the edge of a pasture on my grandfather’s home place.

I’m not sure exactly what I hoped to see or to experience when I saw her again. The physical experience was what I expected but the uncertainty of the mental and emotional impact is what led me to her resting site on a cold windy autumn day.

I thought I might cry and I did. Despite the distorted configuration of her remains, if one possesses both the background and the imagination, she can be identified as a 1941 Chevrolet coupe.

Yet to even the most optimistic aficionado of antique cars the word restoration does not remotely enter the mind. She has no future except as a grisly reminder of the past for those few who still remember.

Her body was once a medium dark green with faded paint a residue of which could be seen if one wiped a white handkerchief across her surface. Some of the green is still recognizable.

When I knew her she had one black front fender and the other front fender was a nondescript hue which I cannot recall. Today both front fenders have been torn from the main body which sits crossways on the frame. Most of the frame protrudes from under what was once the right door.

Her motor and transmission and various other parts are scattered in disarray within the general proximity of the body. What’s left of the metal, which once held the seat, still holds a small sign which proudly proclaims, “Body by Fisher.”

A visual inspection plus a half dozen hefty blows to her body with a long handled hoe indicates surprisingly little rust and an unexpected metallic hardness. The body serves as a reminder of the strength and durability of pre World War II steel.

Behind her frame I found a broken ceramic buttermilk churn, an enamel hand washing basin minus the bottom, the walls of a number three washtub, and a rusted enamel covered pot which was euphemistically referred to as a slop jar.

Those who experienced rural country living during the lifetime of the ‘41 Chevrolet will recognize the utilitarian value of these items. As I found various other items of a bygone era I experienced a revelation. I was not merely surveying a mass of worthless junk. Instead I was examining symbols the meanings and significance of which deserve to be probed explored and remembered.

I next found a nearly empty large intact liquor bottle at which point the aforementioned tears began to flow. The discovery of a large number of liquor bottles of various shapes and sizes followed. Many of the bottles were broken. I found a small piece of a broken mirror which could still reflect a muted image for anyone who gazed into it. The symbolism overwhelmed me as I remembered the life which was broken by the contents of those and countless other bottles.

Before the battered ’41 Chevrolet came into our family my father was a super successful automobile salesman who drove a succession of gleaming new Chevrolets all redolent with new car smells. The last one was a glistening white 1953 Bel Air. Those were indeed “The days of wine and roses” for my father and mother and their two sons.