March 14, 2023
CLASSY OLD BROAD
Word Count 770
I recently met a classy old broad named Beulah Mae and it was a rare gift. In fact, I’ve never met anyone quite like her. At ninety-five years old she looked a little worn out and threadbare in places, with a façade that cracked and peeled a bit around the edges. She may have been faded but her beauty exceeded the years, still impressive enough to turn heads wherever she went. After all, every old girl puts on a little mileage and a little character along the way. That’s part of the allure of an older woman. She looked as though the passage of time had endowed her with wisdom and a perspective born of a life well lived and well loved.
She was dressed in black with silver ornaments and had huge luminous eyes. They were perfectly round and clear, not a cloud in sight despite her age. She was curvy in all the right places but trim and petite in the middle. She could have used a little more padding in my opinion. There was an air of mystery in her knowing smile. Beulah was probably considered sleek and fashionable in her day, a modern girl, always ready for a rousing adventure or a Sunday drive in the country. She probably wasn’t afraid of hard work either and I’m sure she’d seen a thing or two in her day.
I was in awe of her history when we met. Then we got to know each other a little better, swapping tales about our past and dreaming about the future. I was surprised at how spunky and sassy she was, even with the years layered over her vintage surface like fine dust. When she finally sputtered to life and started to move she chug-chug-chugged along with a bumpy gait and a slight rumble at the back, which is understandable for a little old lady. Beulah was incredibly lovable, despite certain fumes that swirled around her, caught you off guard and made you want to pinch your nose. If you ignored the faux pas she was great fun and made you laugh out loud with pure joy.
She rumbled along at a decent pace, bouncing and jiggling, enjoying the spring blossoms blooming like a white crown on the Bradford pear trees. They reminded me of snow white hair laced with streaks of silver cloud, a fitting crown earned over decades, just like this proud old lady. She creaked and rattled over winding lanes past fields starting to turn lovely shades of green filled with spotted cows and tawny calves kicking up their heels. It was the kind of day that made you thankful for the little things, glad to be alive and kicking.
Beulah talked as she went, making all sorts of noises, as old folks typically do. I listened to her chatter and tried to imagine her in the prime of life when everything was fresh and new and her world seemed full of unlimited possibilities, poised on the verge of wondrous things. I wondered what kind of stories she might tell.
Perhaps she would unearth long-forgotten memories or adventurous exploits she’d rather keep secret. She’d recall interesting people and dreamy places she’d traveled. She’d probably tell tales of deep love and tragic loss, bounty and hardship, and watching the world change in ways that amazed her or made her heart ache. Maybe she’d met criminals and characters, moonshiners, and politicians or maybe simple farm folk eeking out a living from the soil of the heartland. She’d go on and on about all the technology, innovation, and invention that has led to a dizzying pace of life. She might lament about the loss of a simpler, slower, kinder way of life that hugged the land and kept the rhythm of the seasons or the kind of life that revolved around faith and family, duty and honor. Those things seemed lost to her time and memory. If only Beulah could talk, I would sit for hours and listen to her grand stories of long ago.
Cars can’t talk but they can make us feel something. They take us back to another time and place. Beulah did that for me. She gave me a greater appreciation for what it must have been like to travel cross country in a 1929 Ford Model A Standard Coupe. Though Beulah was a Special Coupe she was nearly identical to the car my grandmother drove. It was glorious to ride down country roads on a fine spring day in Oklahoma, listening to the happy sound of the ooo-gah horn and the rumble of the history.