Rust, Restoration and Bondo
When I was eighteen, I bought my first car.
One hundred dollars. A ’51 Packard.
Big as a tank and more rust than car.
Plastic seat covers cracked and broken.
Everything creaked. It sort of ran. Sometimes.
I promise you, it was not my first choice of cars,
I lived in an affluent area full of gleaming new cars
in the high school parking lot.
But still, it ran. And a hundred bucks.
A year later it gleamed. a hundred pounds of bondo later,
perfectly sanded. The engine, largely rebuilt purred.
Under the covers, were pinstriped seats, Never sat on.
Two feel higher than every car in the school lot,
I was proud. Not for the car. I could care less about cars,
About the restoration, and the lesson
that everything, everyone, no matter how broken
can be restored, if not to perfection, perhaps
to something more.
Wonderfulness.
A lesson I would later apply
to myself.
About this poem
A true story. About cars. About people About ourselves. About how there are lessons in everything. Poetry is never about one thing.
The car sits just off the highway in the next town over, Hebron, NY.
Tom
Quarry House 
Tom, thanks for sharing your car story. I suppose every guy has a story about a car, perhaps some ladies, also.
Mine is a story of how restoring a car became a vehicle that allowed my adopted son (14) and I to bond as father and son. As all things mechanical, sometimes things went well, and sometimes one of us lost our cool…generally towards the car. But it was a time of working towards a common goal, sharing, learning and getting to know each other…and a story we still relive 40 years later.
Blessings.
Tom, Your poetry, photos, and comments are a special treat in my life! I love what you do and how you help others! You truly are, the hands and feet of Jesus! God bless! Dr. Jim Brown