Metamorphosis: At It Again

A quarter, three jimmies, red, blue, and green; napkins wadded above the visors, a half-melted gelatin candy, an E-Z Pass, and a dead Japanese beetle, which is an ornament of significance; all were found in the newer car as I wiped the interior down.  Now, how does a dead bug gain status as a Message?  Because twelve years ago, when I bought the red car, one was jammed in an impossible spot unless I got a knitting needle to pry it out.  He was pretty, shiny green with tan wings, and dead as twenty door nails, so I forgot the issue of body removal and liked that he was there, a scarab, an omen.

This new deceased bug is fairly fresh, for you could still wiggle a leg without it snapping off--calm down, I wanted to see if he was alive-ish.  But you tell me, what are the chances of finding another in the next purchased car after driving the first bug around town for twelve years?  How many Japanese beetles have you found in your car?  That's right; zero.  A Sign, sings I.  What is even more spectacular was that he was found as I cleaned the area between windshield and dash in order to plant the wood snail shell upon it.

The replacement title had arrived at five p.m. the prior day, after the salvage yards had closed and locked their gates.  I had found a junkyard within a mile of the car seller's house, and could walk there after dropping off my old car, my dear old car.  The problem, besides not finding the original title that I had Put In A Safe Place in order to turn in my junker, was that I was transferring plates and had nowhere to store an unlicensed car without it getting towed.  No title equals no plates; no plates means that the car I had purchased sat in the seller's driveway for ten days.  He was very, very good about it, stating that it had been in the driveway for months already, what was a few more days?

So, the sequence of events began to roll once again; title with me to first take the old car to salvage, and there, atop junkyard layers of oil, bent metal, pieces of cars mashed into a hard, tarry ground, say goodbye.  Thank you.  That car got me through college and dark winter nights coming out to the campus parking lot; it took me up mountains, over barely graded gullies, and on roads to Boston.  It only didn't start once, and that was after I had left the headlights on.  Another time, hurrying into work, I left the engine running and came out seven hours later to a still engaged car with enough gas left to get home.

I abandoned the old car, but it felt like walking away from a faithful pet watching you go; I paused at the exit of the yard to check time; down between the few valiant blades of grass and plantain leaf pushing through the gunk lay a yellow coil, a wood snail's old shell.  It went into a pocket and I walked the mile to the newer acquisition, rationalizing that the older car was dangerous, put in a good run, and was ready to go.  Truly, it was.  But I felt as if I had put my grandmother into a burlap sack with a brick and heaved her into a horde of Mongols.  Organ transplants, I told myself and the car, the Chevy, shall live on in other chassis; especially the fuel lines and brake system just done last fall.

The new car is a jolly hoot, masculine, and now named Rudy for Rudolph Valentino.  I've zipped around in it a bit and still find it a mystery as to how to turn the radio off so that it stays off and doesn't come on every time the engine is started.  I'll figure it out.  There are a few paint chips that need filling in; I can do that.  It's a nine year old car with 50,000 miles on it and the owner had kept a written record of everything.  This relationship will be lovely, I do believe; there is an elegance to this toaster-shaped vehicle and strangers have already walked by and said, "Nice wheels." Go, Rudy.

This past Sunday was the couple's wedding shower for my son and daughter-in-art at a park next to a beach; they've been together for a number of years and both sides of the families are thrilled to be gaining additions.  The ceremony will be held outside and Orthodox; a glass will be smashed, plates broken (I get to do that), the bride and groom carried in chairs. Even though they are as comfortable as a pair of old gloves with each other, both are excited with an electricity and recognition of taking the relationship into another chapter.  Like trading in an enjoyable, satisfactory old car that one is quite happy about for a newer choice in hopes of growth and safety, a haven from what's out there in the world.

Many doubt that they would have ever split, and I agree; yet this opening of another door has stories and possibilities; a public commitment put out there as visible evidence of a promise.  Dana's family is warm, smart, and unafraid; Brian has been welcomed with their open hearts for which I am more than pleased. The gathering brought two sides of the family together, and I got to meet with my own in-laws from my married past.  It felt good to be loved and to love, to celebrate a joyous beginning.

My new car will be fine, Brian and Dana are fine; after the immense display of fireworks from the day before, the moon shone carrot red, a brilliant orange through residual ashes in the atmosphere, a ball of fire with auspicious meaning; a genesis for the continuation of life as a promise of loving, lending stability, support, trust, the impending misunderstandings, forgiveness, and compromise in their hopes for themselves and each other.

The dark has finally seeped over the horizon, transforming the ordinary into the haunted, the mystical.  A smashing rain had hit sideways, and the population is still shaking out water drops from sleeves and shoes; myself,  I am investigating my own changes and what will be done; quite an opportunity has arisen and requires thought.  Sleep, then, in the release of the cool night, your fortune cookie chances await to renew and invent; the threads will tie themselves together in the layers below consciousness, in the city of dreams.  You are more than what waking day allows.  Ten o'clock; all is well.