This is a gratuitous picture of me at 2, sticking my little hand into the hub of my father's Ford Model A's spare tire. This is in 19 fucking 57, can you believe it, I talked to my father just today, and he asked how old I was -- 38. Holy shit! You can't be 38! (He's 62.) But anyways. In there is where the bearing races fit, and it's normally packed with thick snotty stringy grease. I think I remember this, or another time I did it, because I of course got yelled at and my mother freaked out about dirt. Probably I cried and all that, cuz I was just a little monster, but it obviously hasn't had any long-term effect. So much for childhood trauma.
That's my mother in the passenger seat. I remember where the car was parked, around beside my father's mother's ancient garage, between it and the rock garden (so-called), in her house in Sherborn Mass. Grandma's house and yard and the woods behind are the background for a lot of dreams, which never have anything to do with what I ever did there, except the specific and peculiar kinesthetics, the Yankee, slow, old, dead, musty environment. The fallen wall in the background is the foundation of the old barn. I don't recall the wall part, but I remember a grown-over concrete pad, and a bunch of of lead pipes, and some old iron pile of shit.