It was both serene, yet somber. I stood, cold. Boots covered in thick, black mud, gazing at what had become my personal Medusa. I only had two options: Mourn the decay of which I stood in witness of, or rejoice in the ecstasy of the rusty metal that brushed its way across the field of grey, rutted canvas. I chose the latter.
I was as a kid in a candy store, Hornet after Mustang after Elan after, oh dear, what is that?! The primarily decaying American metal housed the occasional treasure only a South Dakota boy could dream of. I reveled in each Galaxie and Chevelle but celebrated the sight of, wait, what? A Lotus! Then came a Renault, a GT6 and, heavens! The supple hood of an E-type.
The nipping early March cold reminded me of the reality in which I stood. Only a few miles from my humble farm lay a magical place: Oakleaf Old Cars. Eighty acres of automobiles, all of which lived long before I, each telling a story. Of their lives, some were long lived. Some, however, tragically short.
Hours past as I gazed at the sepulcher of which these now ancient edifices found their final resting place. The pain of seeing their parts harvested was lessened by the knowledge they were grafted on to another, perhaps cleaner version of themselves, to keep them from entering such a demise. Yet further still, some held chance of making it out complete. Perhaps, I thought to myself, one day I can rescue one of these. I gazed upon them as one does a malnourished puppy.
They day fled from me all too quickly and, before I knew it, It was time for me to leave. I gave my heartfelt thanks to the old gentleman keeping watch over the thousands of delicate, dying souls of which I had just seen chronicled, and departed. Vowing to return and tell more of their stories.