Hank's been watching over the house like a hawk since Blanche died, the duty uniquely his since his own wife passed suddenly just a few months back. I walk across his manicured lawn toward the garage where a pristine Ford Fairlane peaks its two tone nose out of the open door. At the entryway I pause to admire the details - the slouched cowbelly frame, the batman fins, the four startled-looking headlamps above a thunderbird-style grill, everything gleaming. "She's called a Sunliner. Fifty eight." I look up to see Hank stooping his massive, lanky frame to enter through the side door, cracked hands brown from weeding or some other earthy endeavor. He dusts them on faded jeans - the small particle cloud that appears is the only sign of dirt in an otherwise immaculate garage. "What's it running?" "Oh, it's a big block v8. Three fifty two. This one here was the first model to include the three speed transmission. Cruise-o-matic.  I don't even drive it, couldn't tell you how she runs now" "I'm one of Blanche's grandkids. Mike. I'm just staying at the house a few days to, you know, to help 'em get her stuff out." Hank nods and scratches at his big red nose.

"So how did you come by this thing?" Hank speaks in an unhurried and definitive drawl.  'Mailman sold it to me, James Tucker. He used to come by here every Tuesday and Thursday for a beer, then finish his routes. We got to be good friends I suppose. He knew I liked to tinker, and he mentioned he had a couple of old motorcycles he needed fixin'. So I told him I'd take a look, but no promises. Well, I got 'em running sure enough, and he asked me what you want for it? I shrugged and he said well how 'bout that car?' She was pretty even then, too much to give for a little bit of work on a couple of old bikes but I knew he didn't have nothin' else to offer, so I said sure that seems fine." I took the car, and not two months after that, couple of fellas took his life. Said he sold em on a  sour deal but I know Tuck wasn't nothin' but fair. Cut him up and burned the house with him in it. Just another one of them deals, you know?

"Anyway, I suppose you came to see the collection?" "There's more?" He gestures me inward, and slides open a couple of wall mounted cabinets to reveal a fleet of model cars - polished, ornate, probably none of them too easy to find. Cobras and Countache and Packers and Tuckers - all sealed in safe behind a spotless pane of glass, preserved from dust and grime and time.  I let out a low whistle as he makes his way around the room, realizing that behind each cabinet is a similar scene - thousands of scale model tributes to the internal combustion engine. Above one of the cases is an Indian - he taps a button somewhere on its frame and a tinny revving comes sputtering from some inner chamber. Each one has a story. 'That was my son's favorite there. That one my granddaughter went to the supermarket and opened up boxes and boxes of cereal til she had all twelve to give to me. Her mom just couldn't be mad." "How bout this one?" I point on top of the toolbox. "That's a hay rake. I made it out of coffee cans and finishing nails. Bailing wire and some other odds and ends. You're looking at a fella with entirely too much time on his hands."

"Well I wanted to thank you for looking after the place. My parents say you were over here every day when she was sick. Straightening up and running errands and keeping the yard looking nice." "Well that was mostly Dot. i just did what she told me to do. She really liked Blanche. Said she was the strongest lady she'd ever met. It wasn't even last year that she was going out to the farm regular. Said that's why it was so hard to sit and watch her fade. But me, I woulda given anything for that time. Good or bad. I just-"

Hank buries his head in his hand and just as quickly hauls it back, waving off a wake of tears, wrinkling his nose against emotion. "I'm sorry. It's just another one of them deals, you know?"

I think about the memories I found locked away in my own Grandmother's basement. The hand-cranked record player, old Blue Note discs, Victor, Columbia, Wilcox-Gay. The fold out Singer sewer gilded with a golden scarab. My grandfather's fire coat. The burned out flash cubes from the old Instamatic. Did they retain some trace of their subject's essence? This was a mistake, he thinks. I think. Better to keep the memory of these things beautiful, behind clear glass. Laid out for all to see but protected from withering touch of time. Until it comes our time to ride, top down in the Skyliner off toward the sky line. Until we're just another one of them deals.