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As a little girl growing up in Kentucky, I was always surrounded by interesting cars. One of my grandfathers was a mechanic and owned a small garage in a tiny town called Midway.
I have fond memories of conversing with the customers, swindling free bubble gum and riding my bike in the gravel outside the garage.
Occasionally, I would have the honor of being his helper. Grandpa would have both hands under the hood of a car, shouting out the name of the tool he needed. I would revel in the praise I received when I handed him the correct one.
My other grandpa collected and restored old Chevys, including a deep burgundy 1957 Chevy Wagon. One of his garages was filled with cars in various stages of restoration.
Part of that garage was filled with his completed projects, all carefully covered in white drop clothes. The only time the covers were removed was during parade season and for the occasional, and very rare, Sunday drive.
As I grew up and moved away, I lost touch with the car culture a bit. Don’t get me wrong, I can still spot a sexy car from a mile away and, luckily, the car culture in this state is alive and kicking. I simply admire from the comfort of my Toyota sedan, as I tour the interstates of New Mexico.
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