Saturday, June 10, 2017

Annual Car Show at Upper Moreland Middle School - Poem about Car Show

 Trump supporter. He likes Trump bc "he's anti-establishment, he never apologizes and he does what he wants."  This fellow was only too happy to show his beautifully designed T-shirt and talk about his fondness for Trump. Scott's in the background.
 Long Continental. Dig those tires!

 The show takes place in the large parking lot. There were islands of grass, where groups of mostly men lounged.

Old Caddie. Would YOU drive this? I sure would.

 Click to enlarge. May I take your photo, I asked this show-car owner. I like your beard, I said. It was braided at the bottom. How creative!
 Here's his car.
 Sir, I said. How much would you charge to take me home? Scott and I were hoping to find Bruce Uhrich and his Checkers cab here.

I retired from Doylestown Hospital, he said, where he was a coordinator of the Wellness Center. I would give my bipolar talks there.

I'll bet you're working somewhere, I said. He teaches CPR at Abington Hospital.
 It's good to take the backs of people, I said as I was shooting. See the little green island of land? A place to put your folding chairs, coolers and snax.

 Such colors!
 More backs.
Look at this thin door handle.

 Look at the tool belt on this pretend little boy.

 Unsafe at Any Speed: The Designed-In Dangers of the American Automobile by Ralph Nader, published in 1965, is a book accusing car manufacturers of resistance to the introduction of safety features such as seat belts, and their general reluctance to spend money on improving safety. It was a pioneering work containing substantial references and material from industry insiders. It was a best seller in non-fiction in 1966.

Take a bow, Ralph Nader.

Image result for ralph nader photo    From his website. Click here.

Dear Reader, please stand up and applaud Mr. Nader as we award him our much overdue "Helping Make this a Better Planet" trophy.

My friend Jonathan Katz drove a small blue Corvair at Goddard College.

The engine was in the back. 

A couple of us drove over to Middlebury College where we watched a performance of a play with the song Mack the Knife in it.

...composed by Kurt Weill with lyrics by Bertolt Brecht for their music drama Die Dreigroschenoper, or, as it is known in English, The Threepenny Opera. It premiered in Berlin in 1928 at the Theater am Schiffbauerdamm. 

Later on, Jonathan starred in the play The Fantastix performed in the Hayfield Barn.

 Luscious red leather.

 He asked me why I wanted to take his pic. You look like an interesting character, I said. We asked him if there were any Shelbys here but he said No, he hadn't seen any this year. Mr Harley Davidson says he has a lot of cars in different stages of being worked on.
On the way home, we passed The Great Britains, which sells, among other things, Jaguars. Atop the bldg is a huge Jaguar leaping out at you.

I should make a compendium of Great Shots from My Neighborhood.

Just came upon this spectacular poem by the late Jane Kenyon.

Gettysburg: July 1, 1863

Related Poem Content Details

The young man, hardly more
than a boy, who fired the shot
had looked at him with an air
not of anger but of concentration,
as if he were surveying a road,
or feeding a length of wood into a saw:
It had to be done just so.

The bullet passed through
his upper chest, below the collar bone.
The pain was not what he might
have feared. Strangely exhilarated
he staggered out of the pasture
and into a grove of trees.

He pressed and pressed
the wound, trying to stanch
the blood, but he could only press
what he could reach, and he could
not reach his back, where the bullet
had exited.
                     He lay on the earth
smelling the leaves and mosses,
musty and damp and cool
after the blaze of open afternoon.

How good the earth smelled,
as it had when he was a boy
hiding from his father,
who was intent of strapping him
for doing his chores
late one time too many.

A cowbird razzed from a rail fence.
It isn't mockery, he thought,
no malice in it. . . just a noise.
Stray bullets nicked the oaks
overhead. Leaves and splinters fell.

Someone near him groaned.
But it was his own voice he heard.
His fingers and feet tingled,
the roof of his mouth,
and the bridge of his nose. . . .

He became dry, dry, and thought
of Christ, who said, I thirst.
His man-smell, the smell of his hair
and skin, his sweat, the salt smell
of his cock and the little ferny hairs
that two women had known

left him, and a sharp, almost sweet
smell began to rise from his open mouth
in the warm shade of the oaks.
A streak of sun climbed the rough
trunk of a tree, but he did not
see it with his open eye.


Shining in the late afternoon sun
they gathered like diamonds
in splendid rows, hundreds of cars,
carefully clothed in spray
paint - a white curlicue design
on the back of an old Ford truck

Orange curls spritzing the side
of a long black Chevrolet, its
wheels spritzed too

To the aroma of funnel cakes and
hot dogs, the cars awaited our eyes.
A blond man with a braided beard
presided over his emerald green car

He and his wife sat in lawn chairs
that cooled them off from the
blazing heat, beers in their hands

And there was Bruce. Uhrich. What would you charge
to drive us home, I asked as I approached his green and
yellow Checkers cab.

He smiled. Relaxed. He'd retired from the
Doylestown Wellness Center. Not even old.
He does have a side job, teaching CPR at
Abington Hospital.

Did I mention the man in the Trump shirt?
A large looming man. Beer belly.Jolly.
Loved his man Trump. An iconoclast, never apologizes,
does what he wants, like the slithering snake in
my driveway, burned to a crisp as he lollygagged home.


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