By
George J. Kimble
Me and the boy looking for that car
We had searched near and far
Everything we saw, he said, just was not up to par
It may be easier to reach out and touch a star?
Then we came upon that special one
He cried, “Pop this is going to be so much fun”
It was a Rust Bucket and wouldn’t even run
There were holes in it, shot by a gun
That old coupe was anything but a find
To his eye it was a gem in his youthful mind
He saw magic in that paint that wouldn’t shine
It looked like it soaked too long in a vat of brine
Youthful will stirs, youthful desires
Broken glass, shattered headlights, deflated tires
Sunk into the yard, totally mired
A love struck teenager, embraced by the one he admires
Talk all you want and the faults are never heard
Flap your lips and he never hears a word
Point out blemishes and he whistles like a bird
Your views, after the car, and friend’s opinions, are third
Then another tactic is tried,
Mom will be so mad, she will cry!
She will hang me out to dry!
Don’t make me be the one to die!
You realize it to be natural truth
Big dreams are a fact of youth
Not even an inch will he move
He imagines himself in some kind of groove
He is struck
You are stuck
Go get the trailer and the truck
Hope you negotiate with better luck
Maybe you will lose
That may be a good excuse
To leave that heap in the junk yard ooze
Blame the owner for being so obtuse
The crusty, bearded, cigar chomping man didn’t look too nice
However, He throws out a ridiculously low price
You cut it with a big sweeping slice
He accepts and you fall over, as if on Ice
Load that “beauty” onto the trailer you tell the boy
You mumble something about kids and toys
And the kinds of people Junk Yards employee
More over, you see your son jump for joy
On the trip you scold him. “You drag it home”
“You strip it to the bone”
“You do this on your own”
“You leave my tools alone”
The neighbors look in disgust at the beast
Their concerns are your least
That woman inside the house has to be appeased
You know she is not going to be easily pleased
Unloading you start a new lecture
Our subdivision is not a farmyard or a pasture
Do you realize this isn’t a pretty picture?
This thing cannot become a backyard fixture
You look into his eyes and are amazed
His face is beaming and those eyes are glazed
The steering wheel is fixed in his immature gaze
By your discourse he has not been fazed
Wonders do sometimes thrust upon our lives
Sometimes they are stuck into our souls like knives
Suddenly, I relive the moment, when I learned to drive
I remembered how I had to beg and connive
Now, I too am magically blissed
Like the first time I was kissed
A feeling obscured by age, dearly missed
To my carefree youth I have been whisked
Kids and old cars are strange concoctions
Mixed in just the right proportions
They cross time and life’s commotions
Evoking the most enjoyable emotions
As a man and a Dad
I will always become glad
Whenever I recall this time we had
And try to
remember, that old car, wasn’t all that bad!
If you ever had to find a part
You are aware the quest is less science than art
I needed a gas gauge float
For my 1948 Chevy land boat
I had removed the tank
Cleaned it all out because it stank
Inside is a copper bubble hung on a wire loop and lever
It rides on the surface of the fuel and sends a signal, very clever
I pulled the gauge from the top
And found out that the bubble was a flop
I had a torch and some soldier lead
So then I got a notion into my head
Well, resourceful as I am at doing repairs
I figured I soldier it, and ease my cares
It seemed like an easy task
Just before the gas inside it flashed
That’s when I singed my hair
My forehead was blackened and the top was bare
I can tell you now, and I am being serious
That fumes of gas and a flame is very dangerous
Now the quest was on for the bubble
I called every parts house and had the same trouble
They all listened and made the same statements
Then laughed real loud without abatement
None had ever seen one like that
After all they were mostly just young brats
Good help is hard to find these days
So I was on my way
I started out to check some junkyards
This search wouldn’t be too hard
There must be hundreds of cars that used these bubbles
But every one we found had the same darn trouble
Where the wire clasped the ball
Bi-metal corrosion ate through the wall
Car after car and tank after tank
They looked just fine but they all sank
I traveled further and further a field in this quest
But every junkyard was just like all the rest
They looked good in my hand but would sink like a rock
I now had twenty of them in stock
Along a lonesome byway we spied some thing burning
At closer view, it was the setting sun reflected
From the shattered glass of a car long neglected
Behind brush of cedar it was concealed
It was an Old Chevy mired above its wheels
Like mad men we leaped from our truck
And run ankle deep through weeds and muck
The hulk was covered with rust
Mother nature was turning it back to dust
We tried to jack it up for at least an hour
But it was sunk to deep and the sky started to shower
In desperation I slammed my hand against the trunk
It popped open with a clunk
My son in an unusual manner
Grabbed a big claw hammer
He whacked hard and pierced the trunk floor
I encouraged him to do it a whole lot more
Finally he broke through to the rotting and pitted gas tank
Then slowly removed the top, float ball, and shank
It looked good as they all do
What
was left to prove
Hurried home and set it in a pail of water over night
It was still floating in the morning to our delight
That float from the car bound for hell
Has served for more than 15 years in my gas tank’s well
Nothing else on that wretched beast could have been used
Every part had been shot or abused
The quest for the bubble was over and success was ours
Since then we have restored several other cars
But that gem will never be forgotten
Found in the car where everything else was rotten
By George J.
Kimble
How does it feel?
To be stuck on the road
Like a road killed toad
With no plan to move the load
How does it feel?
To see cars pass you by
Without a reason why
Trying not to cry
How does it feel?
To face those expressions never changing
To hear those rods clanging
To watch smoke spew from an engine that’s banging
Oh ! You were the confident one
You drove an antique for the fun
You controlled that magical force
You guided it down that winding course
How does it feel?
The anxiety that you must transcend
To make excuses and amends
To beg from your friends
How does it feel?
To impose your needs
To beg others to do deeds
To revive that smoldering steed
How does it feel?
To drag it onto a flat bed
Hooked, engine’s song dead
Uncontrolled overwhelming dread
Oh! You knew it was the treasure
To make driving a pleasure
To cruise away in leisure
You took every measure
How does it feel?
To be on your own
To be all alone
With no way home
Like a motionless stone
Tell me, How, does it feel?
By George J. Kimble
It's five o'clock in the morning
It came out of the predawn darkness without warning
As I walked across the driveway all seemed natural
My wife had packed my lunch in the little brown satchel
As I opened my big Chevy's door
I
made a mental note to come home early to wash my 454
That black muscle truck looked a little dirty
By now, it was pushing five thirty
When I arrived at work it was just another day
I started my routine that earns me my pay
The hustle and bustle of assigning my crews
Was interrupted by a phone call out of the blue
My wife was agitated on the other end of the line
I had to ask her to calm down several times
She was shouting about, Where is the truck?
The answer, I didn't have, left me dumb struck
I said sarcastically, "It's in the driveway, like it always is!"
She said emphatically, "No it is not, What kind of joke is this?"
I said, "It was there at five thirty!"
"I even noticed it was a little dirty!"
An ill sinking feeling in my cranium throbbed
The rush of realization my 454 SS truck had been robbed
Random thoughts started ricocheting around in my brain
Images of the truck flooded over with anguish and pain
Nightmares of dismemberment in some chop shop
I pleaded with her, "Have you called a cop?"
She shrieked, No she hadn't, yet
She had to get to work; she was taking my Vette.
So, Now I had to handle this thing
I dialed the police; Ring, ring, ring
I told the person on the phone
The 454 was stolen from my home
I hurried home to meet the police and had to wait
An agonizing long time considering my trucks fate
Finally, about ten, appears a police cruiser
Confidently, out steps a stern looking police officer
His questions; at first, made me feel like a suspect
By now, pacing and fidgeting, I was a nervous wreck
I described my 454 in detail; a little form he began to fill
He realized, this 454 truck wasn't just another run of the mill
I started begging him, "Please find my pick-up truck!"
"Recovery",
he explained, "is a matter of luck!"
I needed some assurance from him to help me cope
But, He flatly told me, "There isn't much hope!"
He said, "I'll start an investigation"
He got in his cruiser and left without hesitation
I felt abandoned and left out to dry
I called my wife and she began to cry
The harsh reality we could not escape
We felt violated, sort of raped
Invaded, and pillaged, victimized
Frustrated, and angry, traumatized
In a stupor, I returned to work
I found my self cursing the thieving jerk
I called the insurance to stake my claim
Man, I wished I had someone to blame
Then, I guess you could call it a twist of luck
The police called and said, they had found my truck
It was found with no tires or wheels
The interior was torn up, no big deal
After some bureaucratic hassles and towing arrangements
The 454 SS was taken to a trusted repair agent
He pointed out the damage was much more extensive
And that the repairs would be much more expensive
Hauling it, wheeless, onto a roll-back
Knocked the front-end way out of whack
There were scratches and dents all over the place
The low life thieves escaped without a trace
Now, several weeks have come and gone
The repairs are moving right along
From this event we will recover and survive
We pray no more thieves invade our lives
Though,
we are still feeling rather hollow
And this pill was hard to swallow
Life is strange and has many lessons to be learned
So, Don't covet material things, because POOF, they could be burned
By George J. Kimble
I went out to Clarksville, the last show of the year
The weather was threatening, cool and rain was feared
The show was great and the trophies were grand
They even had good food at the concession stand
I left out of there smiling and happy
But the skies started looking, dark and crappy
I headed south and started down off the ridge
It started raining as I crossed Bordeaux Bridge
Now, my old Buick is a great riding car
But, when it starts raining I can't see very far
The wipers are vacuum powered, as you know
When I accelerate they just don't go
I slogged through puddles and ponding on I-65
Dodging the big trucks and trying to survive
When there in front of me all at once
The traffic was stopped in a big bunch
Well it didn't really stop, but inched along
I entertained myself singing oldies songs
We kept this up for more than an hour
My defogger was over whelmed by the intensity of the shower
Slogging along I was surveying the old Buick's dash
My eyes focused on the fuel gauge illuminated by a lightening flash
The pointer was sagging menacingly low
I started hoping the traffic would start to flow
The straight eight engine in my '48 Buick began to shudder
I had to pull to the shoulder with a spit and a sputter
With anticipation I tried to re-fire
That Fire Ball Eight had no more desire
Now, I was vexed and really started fuming
The
rain was still pouring, but the traffic started zooming
Into the weather I slide out the passenger side
I had to go get some gas for my antique ride
I was walking, now soaked to the bone
Feeling depressed and very much alone
I finally sloshed up to a Magic Market
Probably three miles from where I had to park it
I bought a gallon of gas, the can I had to rent
Back towards the high way I quickly went
A wreck of a car with two people inside
Stopped and asked me if I needed a ride
To decline the offer, was my first reaction
But, I wanted shelter from the precipitation
I jumped into the back seat and dried my face
The car bolted forward like it was in a race
I've always said, "You can't judge the honey by looking at the hive"
But, these guys had me fearing for my life
The one driving had only three teeth and spoke with an impediment
The other looked like a tattooed fugitive, an "institutional resident"
I started worrying, filling up with strife
I hoped, before I had left I had remembered to kiss my wife
Then old toothless said, "How far? My friend!"
I replied "About three miles from the ramp's end"
When these characters saw the antique car they began to howl
Oh, I thought, now they pull their weapons and I get disemboweled
They ran up behind the Buick and came to a stop
I was mumbling a prayer to God for a passing cop
I grabbed my gas and out the door I leaped
And hollered, "Thanks for the lift", to the passenger creep
But, both got out and the biggest one said, "We will stay!"
"To help you out and be sure you are back on your way!"
I thought, Oh, They won't kill me yet, they want my keys
I was trembling from my fingertips down to my knees
I pulled the lever and opened the hood
Next to me on each side these characters stood
I primed the carb and poured the rest in the tank
Slide behind the wheel and started to crank
It took many tries before the engine tasted the gas
But, it came to life and fired at last
They jumped up and down and shouted with glee
Now, I reckoned, they could take the car and do away with me
I figured while closing the hood, I'd disappear without a trace
But, you know I never detected any malice in either one's face
I slide behind the wheel and thanked them immensely
They closed my door standing in the drizzle smiling intensely
I slipped the shifter into first and released the clutch
Leaving
behind in the mist, Two Angels, by whom I had been touched
By George J. Kimble
We had worked all year at the research station
Way up the Ausable Chasm above the Lake Champlain Basin
Two days until Christmas, we are in the wilderness all alone
We both longed for the Holidays and the good folks at home
Weary to the bone
At supper a long silence was broken
We had decided to go home with words not spoken
She said, “We need to be rolling by first morning light”
I said, “ I’ll load the Corvette tonight”
Delighted to the bone
Christmas Eve came with a crystal clear dawn
I leaped out of bed and pulled my Long-Johns on
Thirty below zero on the thermometer outside the window
I did not care I was excited and raring to go
Clear to the bone
Mentally I plotted the course we would take
West on route three through Placid and Saranac Lake
Cross the Adirondacks over the high peaks by four
Then down into Watertown on the Ontario shore
Cut to the bone
Catch the interstate I-eighty-one
Shoot past Red Field before the setting of the Sun
Rush through Syracuse, Ithaca and past Cortland
We’d be home early, is what I had planned
Sure to the bone
As she locked the front door and pulled on a sweater
I unplugged the electric dipstick and the battery heater
I lowered the hood and closed the Corvette door
I turned the key and put my foot to the floor
Stunned to the bone
A low grumble and a moan, no ignition
In the back of my head, was this a premonition?
I called Mike, my nearest neighbor,
I said, “Bring your cables and your tractor”
Good to the bone
Like a bear leaving his den, growling my Corvette suddenly shook
A shot of ether and twenty four volts, is all that it took
You know temperatures this low turn oil into Jell-O
But, now my car was idling nice and mellow
Happy to the bone
Roads through the mountains are legend for their wrecks
None are more notorious than Rt. 3 in the Adirondacks
It is a snake coiled around many mountain breasts
It is always dangerous, and even great drivers it will test
Mean to the bone
It is picture perfect as we make our up slope flight
Beautiful Mountains covered in white
The radio guy says something about storm warnings
I switch the station. He was so boring
Dumb to the bone
She is beautiful; the cold air has reddened her checks
I am in Corvette bliss as we traverse the High Peaks
“There is no place as pretty as Lake Placid on Earth,”
She mentions the darkening sky for what it is worth
Worried to the bone
Across my windshield small droplets scurry
Little ice crystals mixed with snow flurries
Leaden sky, now, a Nor’easter does forebode
Slush is forming along the unsalted road
Soaked to the bone
Its spitting ice mixed with rain
Blast of snow screaming out of the Canadian Range
The clouds have closed down around our heads
A mountain winter storm all travelers must dread
Shaken to the bone
Our pace is drastically slowed
Visibility down to twenty feet of road
Sudden change to pure hard driven snow
Corvette wipers are working on over load
Close to the bone
Front tires struggle to maintain their grip
Rear wheels increasingly slip
Defroster can’t keep the windows clear
Her face is totally inscribed with fear
Stretched to the bone
Guardrails are vanishing beneath the layers of snow
It is awfully hard to tell which way to go
We can’t stop. We will be buried
I haven’t been this scared since we got married
Scared to the bone
On rushing flakes are hypnotizing
Each new slope is agonizing
Terrible crunching sounds are coming from below
As fender bergs break off from the packed snow
Pained to the bone
Slower, slower, progress measured in inches
At every new curve my partner winces
We are trapped in a clear white maze
The hood and windows are covered in icy glaze
Stuck to the bone
We have seen no other traffic
Our situation is drastic
Our nerves are all tensed
Muscles are pulsing and clenched
Stiffened to the bone
Our eyes are blurred, we’re snow blind
Awful fears fill our mind
Wandering along like a fighter on dope
We press on toward the Adirondack’s downward slope
Aching to the bone
It is a struggle of Nature against man and his machine
This was never a part of my wildest dream
The Corvette’s wide and balanced stance
Is the only weapon giving us a chance
Muscled to the bone
We come upon a lone way station
We pull in with out any reservations
We run to the entrance through the drifted lot
We are glad to be in a place that is warm, if not hot
Frozen to the bone
Now easing up to a blazing stove
We tell the story of how we drove
Then
a rumble from the road so very loud
The storekeepers say, “The road is now plowed"
Warmed to the bone
We look to our Vette and the sun magically appears
We are going home to Holiday cheer
We will follow that big old plow
We are determined, nothing will stop us now
Resolute to the bone
Destination reached the moon shines bright on new fallen snow
Momma's house is warmly decorated and seems to glow
Everything as we always remembered it to be
Even our own stockings are hung by the tree
Beautiful to the bone
When duties or missions have for long made us roam
Blessed is the time we spend in our home
With loved ones on Christmas may no one be alone
I pray let us all be
MERRY to the bone