Stories from Rural America The Old Car By: Gary Gray      Anybody who grew up on a farm can tell you about the car's they have owned. Anybody who grew up on a farm will also tell you that when they have driven their last mile in that car, where it eventually ended up. Behind the Barn.      The problem with behind the barn is that there is only so much room. The old abandoned cars frequently have to be moved to make room for the new abandoned cars. Eventually, the whole darn farm is cluttered with abandoned cars of every generation and in various degrees of haggard dilapidation.      One such car I remember quite distinctly was the Grey 1954 Oldsmobile. With the flying V on the hood and the eye-like headlights above the sparkling rounded chrome bumper ends, it was a luxurious automobile that appeared to have a face with it's tongue sticking out when viewed at an angle from a short distance. It was one of the first subjects of my attempts at mimicry. It looked even more distinctive sitting on the hillside behind the barn after being abandoned.      I recall as a child, riding to church in this monstrosity. The red leather seats so soft and comfortable, the bright chrome trim gleaming in the Sunday morning sunlight. Most of what was observable from my back seat vantage would be the leafless branches of trees careening past the window. I could lift myself and smear my face on the window glass, but that wasn't advisable under most circumstances as the vehicle was kept spotless and evidence of my slobbering face found on the window would most certainly result in my posterior discomfort.      I would sit in the parked vehicle for hours pretending I could drive, luxuriating in the smell of the vehicles' interior, generally ignoring everything else about me. My tiny hands must have been the only thing visible from the exterior of the car, twisting the steering wheel with exaggerated and frantic motion, left and then right as I made the pretending sounds of a high powered engine with my tiny mouth. The radio knobs were always interesting to play with.      I doubt that any adult that ever entered the car ever found the radio on the same station or at the same volume they had left it and would be greeted with a loud screeching and hiss the instant the ignition was turned to the on position. My little gift to the elders for allowing me the pleasure of playing in the mechanical wonder.      The real excitement to be had was riding along the narrow country roads. The car could travel the roads so full of dips and curves at such velocity and pleasure, I actually believed I was in a jet aircraft gliding softly through the clouds. Each dip in the road would raise me in my seat, each curve would cause me to glide from one side to the other. It was more exhilarating than riding a roller coaster, though most likely less safe.      As with all things, the end must eventually come. The car's usefulness was finally at an end and it was unceremoniously taken behind the barn. It sat there for several years until the room was needed for a newer junk car. My grandfather hauled the rusting Grey beast with his tractor to the hillside behind the house. The hillside remained its final resting ground for the years that followed.      It sat there for an eternity or so it seemed to my brother and I, until one day. One day we decided that this gentle old friend could again be the source of entertainment. We had contemplated for some time, what to do with this poor retched hunk of metal. Perhaps we could shoot it full of holes with our 22 caliber rifles. No, other members of the family had already accomplished that. No need to tread on that ground. Perhaps we could paint it. There was plenty of leftover white paint stored in the barn and surely, nobody would mind. No, somebody might mind. Paint cost money and there was not allot of that to go around in those days. After days of lazy contemplation, we came to a mutual decision.      We decided to roll it down the hillside. The idea of seeing the massive rusted behemoth tumbling and rolling out of control to the hollow below was too much to resist. It was most certainly round enough and heavy enough to muster the required inertia for this feat. All we had to do was get it started. It would roll and roll until it crushed the trees and brush far below us on the hillside. This was perfect!      We gathered the required tools. A couple of jacks, rocks-big rocks for chocking as we jacked it up. Timber retrieved from the barn, needed to pry and level the vehicle to its launching position. Shovels, we must have shovels to dig out beneath the frame where we intended to place the jacks.      So we dug and we dug. We cleared away the debris field below the car so that it would have a good clean path on its initial roll. We placed the jacks in the holes and proceeded to start lifting the giant from its rusted and dirty perch. When the length of the jacks ran out, we placed piles of rocks underneath the car to hold it in place.      Inch by inch, the grand plan was taking place. Inch by inch, the great Grey hulk rose to an ever increasing angle. Hour by hour we grew closer to the completion of our mission. We tied the roof off with rope around the window frames where the glass had long since vanished from existence, the distant end wrapped firmly around the oak trees above us on the hill. This would keep it under control and provide the needed safety for our work on the downhill side.      We didn't want the ungainly thing falling on us while we worked on the downhill side, that was certain, and we took every precaution we could to prevent it. Rocks were used to chock the forward base of the car's body. Timber was pried between the front and rear fenders and the ground anytime we ventured to the downhill side. Finally, we reached the point. The final point of no return.      The car was on its side and secured in that position for the grand display to follow. The display of physics that could only be imagined by the most bored of country folk. The rolling of the car.      We announced to our family and friends with great enthusiasm, the ultimate intended final disposition of the once great source of family transportation. The ceremonious tipping of the car was to occur after breakfast the next day. My brother and I would usher everyone interested to the spot that we had prepared on the hill beneath the shady oak trees amongst the prickly blackberry bush's. My brother and I would then proceeded with the show by making the final nudge, after which all would be treated to the tumultuous rolling of the car down the hill into the depths of the hollow. Everybody was excited beyond our wildest expectations. Neither my brother nor I slept the entire preceding evening in anticipation of the grandest of events ever perpetrated on the old farm.      Early the next morning shortly after sunrise, we ate our breakfast and gathered in the kitchen. Neighbors came from miles down the road. Some on horseback, others in new shiny automobiles, some even on wagons pulled by mules. In all, we succeeded in gathering some 30-40 souls beneath the shady trees behind the house on the hillside.      My brother and I waited patiently while the gathering mass huddled together in nervous anticipation. Carefully, we untied the ropes securing the car to the tree. My brother walked gingerly to the side of the car and kicked the rock away from the base. The car teetered, ready to start it's uncontrolled tumble with each flinch we made. The crowd ooh'd as the mass of steel shivered with the breeze. The softest touch of ones finger could make the precariously perched mass wiggle.      We counted down...10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1...GO! My brother and I pushed, the car started its slow fall, picking up speed as it began its uncontrolled tumble. Further and further it went, finally it landed on it's roof and started the remainder of it's turn. Rolling, rolling it was happening, right before our eyes. But wait. Something was not right. The car started its roll as planned, it hit on its roof and continued, but somewhere, somehow, it started slowing. It continued moving but the movement was slowing, it was not going over again. It almost made it to its opposite side during its roll, but not quite. It creaked for a moment, then fell back on it's roof, wobbling for a few more brief crumpling moments until, oscillating back and forth it stubbornly settled on it's roof. It never made it over. It never made it down the hill.      The crowd groaned in disappointment. My brother and I were devastated. We pushed and pushed on the car but it would not budge. We lodged lumber beneath it for leverage, it wouldn't budge. The best we could manage was to wobble the unhappy wreck back and forth, without further effect. The crowd drifted away, some issuing regrets and kind thoughts, others complaining of the wasted time and still others simply silent in their dejection, none more dejected than my brother and I.      If one travels to the old country today, along what was once called Taylor Ridge Road, they may spot a hillside behind an old country farm house, they may very well observe the old rusted hulk sitting on it's roof along that very hillside. The only difference one may expect to find would be the amount of rust and of course, the color. It's now a white rusted abandoned car sitting on it's roof, along the side of a hill above the hollow below the shady oak trees amongst the prickly blackberry bush's. Gary Gray is a Veteran of the US Navy and has worked for The Wall Street Journal since 1981. He presently lives in Denver, Colorado. He is a student of the Paranormal. He writes short stories and is currently working on a paranormal fiction novel set in the Ozarks of Missouri. Click Here To Send Gary A Personal Message