Daddy’s International was rotting in Grandaddy’s pasture when I wrote this for an English class at Fort Steilacoom Community College in 1985. It made me sad to see it just rot away.
His body, once dignified, lays broken down and faded. Red paint now pink in the shade of the sturdy, ageless oak tree. His steel bed that once held 5 Ray children as they rode through town is ravaged now by cancer, leaving him weak. His value, gone. Grandkids and great grandkids cannot resist the temptation to poke at his shell, bang on his hood to hear their song. His headlights, shattered, his flashy side mirrors gone forever. The past, passed.
I am Happy to report, while most of him is buried in the car cemetery, granddaddy made his rear end into a trailer. This International is a useful, worthy piece of farm equipment, fulfilled again.