“Driving was my life,” the old man said.

His young grandson moved a polishing cloth in circles over the hood of his car and did not reply. He knew better. When Grampa was like this, he was lost to time.

“Back then, what you drove was who you were. Rich kids had new Chevys or Fords, two-doors, if-you-please. Bad kids had stripped down cobbed together hot rods; they were the most loud and brash; undecorated, like their drivers.”

The boy lovingly shifted his work from the hood to the chrome.

“It wasn’t like it is today,” the old man complained. “Toyotas and Suburu’s. PAH! Jap tin cans, I call ’em! Cookie cutter clones and wannabe Mercedes. Back then a German car was a Volkswagen and only hippies drove ’em. Jap cars were unamerican!”

“Don’t take it personally, Grandpa,” the kid said. “America just grew up.”

He stepped back from the immaculate ‘57 Chevy and added, "C’mon. Let’s go for a ride."

The old man didn’t have to be asked twice. He opened the door and slid onto the front seat of his dreams.