From the Farm: The Cow Car – Call her an icon
We all have different people or items we consider icons.
Someone may consider Abraham Lincoln an icon. I mean, he did after all compose the Emancipation Proclamation.
Some may admire Albert Einstein. We call those people “nerds.” Einstein was the theoretical physicist that developed the “general theory of relativity.”
Sure. OK. That sounds great.
William Shakespeare is considered an iconic writer. I am not so sure on this one. I don’t understand Shakespeare’s writing unless I have a teacher explaining his stories to me.
We have to include Benjamin Franklin. He was very successful and admired. The older we get, the more we appreciate bifocals, one of Franklin’s inventions. Franklin also tinkered with the idea of refrigeration. He understood that on a warm day, if his shirt was drenched and a breeze was blowing, he stayed cooler. Well, thank you for that mental picture: Benjamin Franklin in a wet T-shirt.
Now that’s iconic!
Not all icons are of the human sort: The Statue of Liberty, the Nike Swoosh, the MSN butterfly. You get the picture. Try to replace your mental image of Benjamin with one of these.
I have two items in my world that I consider iconic.
The first is a gaudier-than-Phyllis-Diller, green-plastic ring I received from Steve years ago. We were at a mall with some friends. The guys went to the arcade (yes, they did exist at this time) and the gals went shopping.
Steve won the green ring and gave it to me as a gift! It’s so iconic to me; I keep it in our fire-proof safe. Sure, during a fire it will melt, but I’ll still have a melted wad of green plastic. My grandchildren will wonder why I kept a wad of plastic goo. That’s iconic too.
The other icon in my world is my Cow Car, a 1995 Ford Taurus. We removed a logo so now it says, “All star.”
I drove it. Joey and Russell both drove it as their first vehicles. My friends reported to me when they observed Joey driving it down Broadway, making it “rock” by pumping the brakes. You see, the shocks were shot. Man, Russell used to get so mad when Joey did that. Sometimes I was priviledge to be in the back seat when this happened. I laughed hysterically. Yes, we eventually fixed the shocks, much to our sadness. That was fun!
I sold it to an exchange student and she gave it back to me when she left the country. The inside smells of smoke, but the exterior is exquisite. This exchange student had class and a flair for coolness, much like mine.
Along with leaving the rusty spots, she started letting people write messages on it.
Most people just autographed the cow car.
Kids from Alexandria, Gibbon, New Ulm and New Mexico signed their names.
There is a tribute to Jack, the cat that was apparently run over by the cow car right after the student took the car to the farm she lived on. It simply says, “Rest in Pieces, Jack.”
Some of the kids are “Old enough to know better, but still too young to care.”
Apparently Crystal is the best teacher when it comes to learning how to scrape manure.
Someone just wrote the word “Mother.” How boring that person must be. (Wink, wink) I know of one other mother that put her actual name on the car.
It must be true that “Germans have more fun!” because it says so on the hood of the car.
There are so many messages, there isn’t enough space here. I laugh whenever I look all of them over.
People have tried to purchase the cow car from me, but I am reluctant to send her on her way without knowing what will happen to her. She needs to go to the proper person. She’s an icon. You can’t just send an icon to live with anybody. You wouldn’t want to send Albert Einstein to live with Mork from Ork.
“She’s iconic,” I tell Steve. “She has to have the proper burial. I will feel it when I know I have made the proper send-off choice.”
Right now it looks like the Cow Car may end up in the Demo Derby at the County Fair. That seems fitting to me. The County Fair has great memories, which include cows.
I will only place one restriction on her use as a demo car.
The paint job has to remain “as is.”
I am going to miss that icon.
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