Hello. I am a classic car, a 1969 Pontiac GTO, to be precise. My fellow classics and I are not gone or forgotten. We are alive and well, for the most part, though some of us suffer from various afflictions. Eventually, we will heal and you will see a surge of us traveling your lovely streets once again. How do I know this? Because many of us still sit among the clutter and accumulation of storage garages and barns, among the things that have too many memories for our owners to toss out. We are their prized memory!

I'll tell you my story, but only because you have been curious enough to ask. We classics were a proud breed, back in our era. We roamed your streets dressed in the very finest our owners could provide. Never would they think of parading us around unless we were freshly washed and waxed. We sported every accessory imaginable: Fancy paint jobs, big wide tires, really loud exhaust pipes and motors with lots of horsepower!

It was good times, let me tell you. On any given Saturday night, you would see dozens of us lined up in the local eateries and hang outs. Crowds would gather around, admiring our features, and comparing all the new things our owner's had given us since the last time we'd all met. Sometimes they would pit one of us against the other to see who could create the most smoke, who was the loudest and who was the fastest. Boy, did I give them all a good show. My owner was so proud of me, I usually got something new every week.

But, that was back in the 1970's and as all things must change, so did the priority that I held in my owner's life. Oh, they made great attempts to keep me in the style I was accustomed to, but I guess it got to hard for them. Our fun weekends out became less and less. It seemed like they had to spend more time working to get more money. And more of that money seemed to go to those children they'd recently gotten than to me. I don't blame them though, because they seemed to enjoy those kids, and even sported them around in something called a family car.

But, I know they still love me, because they keep me with them, and once in a while they even visit with me, here in the garage. We make plans to restore me to my youth. They tell me that soon there will be some money to get me some nice things again. Soon, the heart of my big block 400 engine will tick strong again. Soon, my body that is now a sad shade of primer and rust will shine with that gleaming coat of Midnight Green that only I can carry off! I will be a proud lady again, I will gleam, I will shine, I will go againsoon.

It's been twenty years since I last saw the streets, but I have hope, because my owner is starting to show more interest in me again. Those children are grown up now and they don't live here anymore, but I still do. I figure that as long as I'm still here there's hope for my future. And maybe, just maybe, it's my turn again, soon.

Believe it or not, those grown children have taken an interest in me too. They listen to the tales of my grander days, and they get excited too. They have not witnessed the glorious site of me and my counter parts cruising the streets, they have not heard the roar of my big block, or the screech of my wide tires, but I believe they want to, and I believe with the knowledge and help of my owners, this younger generation will help me too.

So, for those of you who wonder where we went, check a friend's garage, or some of the old country barns. You might be surprised at what you find waiting in dark corners and under dusty tarps. We are not gone, we are not forgotten, we are just waiting.

Learn more about this author, Donna Thacker.
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