The Impala Bear - Part 1Occasionally, one sets out to find a particular thing and in the process, finds another un-particular thing. So was the case with the Impala bear. Part 1 of this multi-narrative teddy tale brings you up to speed on the "what, where, when, and how". Stay tuned for Part 2 to get the skinny on the "who"! Ready to check out some old cars? Got your closed-toe shoes, your gloves, a few dollars to get in the gate? Come then, please walk through the junkyard with me on a fine November afternoon... November is a great junkyard month in the rust belt. It's cold enough to dissuade ticks and snakes from being fully involved in your browsing sessions, yet warm enough in the afternoons to still feel your fingers and face. The mosquitoes and other stinging, biting insects have vanished along with 90-degree days and stifling humidity. Chilly temperatures and dry winds parch the ground and allow the mud to tack up in most spots, plus that brisk air is snappy enough to keep fair-weather parts pullers out of the yard - no summer crowds. And with the leaves all but mostly fallen from the surrounding trees, you can really appreciate an iron oxide landscape with a bluebird sky backdrop. Or at least, I do. On this sunny November afternoon, I was seeking out a piece of Chevy muscle car. The vast 'older' section of the junkyard beckoned like an old friend - an old friend who you call to chat with for a few minutes, but it's been so long and you have so much to talk about that you hang up three hours later. I walked up and down every row, oogled every peeling roof, every sculpted slinking quarter panel, every empty engine bay (with and without shrubbery). It was glorious. But, over halfway through my perusing, I was yet to find what I was searching for. Dodges a-plenty. Smatterings of Plymouths. Lines of 50's era ice cream float go-getters that surely graced the parking lots of America's best and worst diners and drive-ins in their hey-day. Trucks that pulled my eyes with just a glance. I gave no complaints, that's for sure, though for all my gawking and appreciation of everything raked-over and rusty, no muscle cars living under the Chevrolet name badge stood up to claim recognition. At least, none that my limited old-car knowledge could identify without some serious detective work... or repeated calls and photo-texts to those exclusively familiar with automobiles that lived over a half-century ago. Trudging on toward the weediest corner of my outdoor shopping mall, I reached back into my short-term memory bank and tried to recall where the "maybes" were in the dozens of identical looking rows of aged and weathered metal. Unless there was something here for me in this last handful of cars, I may have struck out. I started to think about alternate candidates. Was that road trip-ready looking wagon back in the mid-rows a Chevy Nomad? My thoughts were interrupted as my boot sank into a gooey wheel loader tire track. Perfection. I had spent the past three days washing, oiling, and waterproofing my old pair of Irish Setters. Hop-scotching through the churned earth, I reached the final stretch of my search efforts. This mystery pocket of cars tucked into the coattails of the treeline was anyone's best guess without peeling back shoulder-high grasses for a closer look. Glancing around at the sleeping beasts, I took a step forward into their lair. Without further prying beyond bending a branch or two, I realized that this ragged aisle of iron offered nothing under the heading of "muscle car". These immovable relics were far older, though not without their own character and charm. I withdrew my steps and focused on my goal. I would pay these elder residents another visit, another time. But only in the cold season of reptile dormancy. Heading upward through the last row of cars, empty-handed, I intended to trek back out to the main aisle and see if I could re-locate the 'maybes'. I had to leave with something. Then I saw it. Down on my left, neighbor to a Chrysler Saratoga, sat an Impala of 60's vintage. A big, minty green Chevy car adorned with various shades of rust and numerous dents, missing a hood, trunk lid, and passenger side fender... just to name a few absent items. Sitting flush on the ground, sans axles, it blended effortlessly with the topography of forgotten cars. The late autumn sunshine, at its afternoon peak of intensity, bathed it in a splendorous glow of cloud-parting, angel-singing glory. This is THE ONE, an invisible voice seemed to say. This what you've spent three hours looking for. This car is special. I let out a sigh of relief and began to give the car a walk around, pondering what sort of souvenir it could offer up. The obvious choices were the remaining fender or the door, with the latter arguably causing more labor and headache to remove. Plus, there was the factor of travel, as in carrying said souvenir uphill to the checkout window. It wasn't exactly a short walk. Fender it would be. I peered across the door into the car, surveying the inside of what was once a magnificent looking automobile. The aqua-esque interior matched the exterior's somewhat teal-green, time-riddled paint - a likely color more properly referred to as "Artisan Turquoise". I imagined what it must have looked like new; sharp and full of flair. Then another matching item caught my eye, on the drivers side floor right in front of the shredded remains of a seat. It was a bear. Ready to finish the story? Click here to jump to part 2!
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Tales of Douglas Furr (and his friends)narrated by Crissy Clossin Archives
February 2024
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