My son and I made a discovery this weekend: a rusted-out shell of a car that crashed in 1957 and may or may not have a skeleton inside.
Or we found a car that a bank robber stole then abandoned in the woods after a high-speed police chase.
Or a busy road once ran near the spot where the forgotten car sits and, years ago, it careened around a corner too fast, flipped onto its top and has lied, undisturbed, until we stumbled across it on Saturday.
There were a hundred different scenarios created by the mind of my 10-year-old on how the old car ended up in the woods, on its roof and seemingly forgotten. There were no engine pieces, no tires or wheels, no headlight assemblies, just the crushed and rusted shell of what I could only guess might have once been a 1950s Chevrolet. My son convinced himself it was a 1960s Cadillac Eldorado. After closely inspecting the car for a good 15 minutes, he excitedly proclaimed that he had found the reason for the crash.
“Dad! I found it! The steering linkage detached from the axle! He couldn’t steer and crashed!”
While it’s doubtful the car suffered some long-forgotten tragedy and certainly has been “discovered” by middle-school-aged boys countless times over the years, that old car sparked a new passion in my son’s already car-obsessed mind.
He wants to tow that shell of a car home, put it in the shop and restore it.