The Messenger Brought Me A Letter
I knew that something strange was going to go down the minute I entered the old deserted Wixom Assembly Plant. The place had spook written all over it. Of course it did. When we first went in, my Team was busy talking with the folks from Ford, and I wandered off alone. I was drawn to some music way back in the corner of the old place . . I couldn’t imagine where it was coming from, in this abandoned place, but I knew I recognized that sound. When I got to the corner, I didn’t find the source of the music that had drawn me over there like a Siren, but I did find this. A letter, written back in 1959, and it was to me! Of course it was to me. I opened it, and read the first page.
Hmm. I did know this voice, somehow. I recognized it deep inside myself. Sometimes it’s like that with people or ideas or things. You can’t really explain it, you just know. It’s just … A feeling. A memory. From somewhere else. Like something from up above. That happens to me a lot.
I began to roll through the deserted plant. The Wixom Assembly Plant was in the middle of a demolition, being torn down to make way for the new Ford Energy Park. So it was hard for me to be too sad about the destruction, when what is going to be created in its place is what I am all about. But of course, nostalgia is what it is, and as I rolled slowly down the now non-existent line the ghosts of my old friends started to appear before my eyes — It was not lost on me as I moved so silently through that cavernous place that as real as I am, I was also a ghost.
I saw the old ‘59 Thunderbirds - or rather, their ghosts, they were mere outlines of themselves now, like holograms - and thought of my journey through the first four nations of Canada, and my time with The Thunderbird there. I decided to tell my old T-bird friends that story. They laughed mightily when I described to them how The Thunderbird had roared for A Thunderbird! Not a Lincoln! And how he had flown all around me and then had suddenly and mysteriously understood why I had been sent to him instead. The Thunderbird ghosts nodded solemnly back at me as I relayed the whole story to them as we rolled along together down that ghost line. I paused for a moment, thinking about it - my time with The Thunderbird had been another time travel adventure, and one that makes my heart catch every time I think about it. It was a favorite of mine. I felt like goin’ back.
I rolled on. The creak and moan of the old generators echoed loudly in that place, still. At least for me. Phantom sounds. The sound of the line. God how I used to love that sound, it meant we were up and running. It meant soon I would be born! I strained to hear it again through the din, through the slash and burn of the metal cutters tearing the place apart. I heard it so clearly for a moment, and fell under its spell. I stopped dead in my tracks, my headlights off. I was back in the old days. Good feelings. Dreams! Anticipation. Excitement! Everything ahead of me.
Suddenly the wind blew fiercely through the broken glass of the old black leaded glass windows, bringing more glass onto the factory floor, right in front of me, startling me like a snake at a horse’s hooves. Now the harsh sound of destruction was everywhere. Now I was standing in the middle of a fire, watching my own self burn to the ground. I looked around and the Thunderbird ghosts were still glowing, but ever so faintly, and moving away from me. They seemed to be fading. I didn’t like the way I felt; I shuddered and moved on down the line, trying my best to avoid the glass. I turned my attention back to the letter.
Both? What did the writer mean by both? I thought of all my close friends, past and present. I knew that it was fate that had put me here, and indeed fate that had led me all along the way. I looked over at Neil, his eyes wide inside this place, this place that must have been an oft-imagined and somewhat sacred place to him when he was just a boy. I watched him watch its demolition now, trying to read his face. Neil has rescued me from this fate, I thought. He has renewed me, breathing new life into my old heart. I felt so grateful to him. I remembered the young hitchhiker, and the little girl, at Devil’s Den, so long ago. I knew it was not a coincidence that I had been with them way back then, and over and over again, throughout my life. I thought of all my friends, past and present; I saw phantom cars all around me, important parts missing, and said a silent prayer for my old friend Pop. I did the best I could to bow my head for a moment, no easy task, seeing as I don’t have one.
I rolled along the haunting, and haunted place. I saw scenes from the past clicking on and off around me like changing channels on a television screen …There! My top was going on! There! My seats going in! There - Ah. My hood ornament, being attached finally, and at last. That part was done by hand, with infinite care. I marveled at the care. My mind drifted back to Chief John Lame Deer, and the very first night I met my spirit friends. I remembered the beautiful dance he and The Lady of The White Buffalo had done around me that night. I remember how they looked at each other when the palms of their hands, raised high above their heads, touched ever so lightly as they passed one another, circling me. I remembered how the Chief had put both of his hands on my hood ornament before he left, holding it there in his hands as tenderly as if it were a baby bird. A beating heart. How he held an exact duplicate of my hood ornament there in his hands when he did let go. Showing me, I thought, that he would never let go. I was remembering. I do remember. I remember it all. Every single detail. Every single second. Everything.
I realized I hadn’t finished reading the second page of the letter, and went back to it:
I closed my eyes, suddenly overtaken with emotion. Before I knew it I was no longer in the cold dark deserted plant under demolition but on the open road! On the highway, heading north. It was around 1959, I could tell by the other cars on the road. Aah! These were the days. I was sucking down gas like there was no tomorrow but seeing as it was some kind of dream I didn’t feel guilty. I make it a rule to never feel guilty in my dreams. Glug, glug. Glug.
Out there running down the road a car slowed next to me. I was startled to see a face I recognized pressed against the window in the back seat. It was a boy, around 14, 15 - I was sure I knew him. His face was childlike, but knowing. I couldn’t put my finger on what it was, but there was something that drew me to him. He looked longingly at all the cars on the road, but seemed to look at me for a long, long time. I liked it. I didn’t want him to look away. I felt a child being born, and wondered why.
I looked in my backseat. Wha?! The letter was right. There was a faint image of a Hindu god there in the corner of my back seat, dancing away in the center of a fire. I could feel the heat. I stared and stared, thinking maybe I should look away before I got turned into a pillar of salt or something. But that’s another myth. As I watched, The Nataraj bent down and reached into the fire. When he straightened up, he lifted his open palm to his mouth, and blew, beginning to disappear as he did so. As if we were in a slow motion movie scene, dust left his hand slowly, so slowly, spinning from his hand over and over again until it filled my interior. The most amazing part was that the dust, once it left his hand, turned into beautiful colors. Red and pink and purple, spinning, spinning. It shone like stars. But it landed as flowers; when the dust finally settled, there were tiny blossoms everywhere: On my seats, my floor, my dash. The dust even floated all the way out onto my hood, covering it with petals. I felt like a proud horse; the Kentucky Derby winner, with her wreath of roses.
I turned back to the letter. I had to finish it.
But that was it. There were only four pages. The last page was missing! I tried hard to remember it, for I knew I had written it, on the day I was born. I had been reading a letter from myself! I knew what I was looking for was inside of me somewhere. I had already written these words. But even if I hadn’t - we all hold in our hearts certain truths, certain beauty that we never learned, but simply remember, don’t you think so, Blog?
But I couldn’t remember it. Too much was happening at once. I needed air. I needed peace! I needed light. The ghosts in this place were getting to me.
Neil rescued me all over again. He came from out of nowhere, got behind the wheel and drove me outside, into the light. I couldn’t believe where he was taking me …I was headed for Center Court! That’s what we called it back in ‘59. The podium display next to the highway where for years and years the newest, snazziest models would be put on display. I had been up here in 1959! It was a proud moment in my life, I remember it so vividly. And now here I was again - I was to be the last Lincoln ever displayed here. The Last Lincoln. It was a moment. For all of us.
The winds were blowing hard. The American flag whipped back and forth above me. I looked out at the cars passing me on the highway. I wondered how many of them looked over and thought Huh?! Because I look like an old car on the outside. I wondered if people thought they had driven through some kind of Time Warp.
I looked over at my Team, and our new friends from Ford. They were all looking at me so fondly, their faces full of nostalgia and hope, it made my heart swell with pride. And love. They were proud of me. And I was proud of them.
I watched Neil, watching me. I tried to read his thoughts. Surely this was a big moment in his life … He practically built a car from the ground up with my team and now here I was, on the podium at Ford Motor Company! The headlights of cars flying down the highway next to us flashed onto his face and I thought I saw again the face of the boy, the same boy who I had seen on the road earlier, his face pressed against the glass.
When I looked out at him again, he was walking toward me. It was time to go. He hopped in, drove me down off the podium and then we just sat there, idling for a moment.
The winds kept blowing. Some of the blossoms that had been scattered all over my interior were still there, swirling around. A dandelion blew in the window. Neil picked it up, held it up for me to see, his eyes dancing. I laughed. The old Dandelion Clock!
“What time is it, Neil?” I said. He blew. The dandelion seeds blew all over me, landing on my floor, my seats, my dash.
“The time is now, LV,” he said, a smile in his voice, tossing the stem out the window. ”Long overdue,” he added.
I looked in my rearview mirror and saw the child in his face still. I do conceive of the pleasure in your smile, I thought to myself. I felt, for a moment, that spark - that rediscovery of the wonder we are graced with when we are born. It burned my heart.
We sat there in front of Ford Motor Company for a long while. When it was time to hit the road and go to town, I watched as N. very carefully gathered up the four old, crumbly pages on my seat, casually adding one from his own pocket … the fifth page?! I looked carefully … Yes! It was the same stationary, the same strange seal on it, which of course I now recognized at The Nataraj.
“Neil?” I said.
“Mmm?” he said.
“Did you read . . . Do you know … Do you have …” I couldn’t seem to say exactly what I was trying to say. He answered me anyway.
“Yes,” was all he said, and then he simply added the missing page onto the bottom of the pile, folded them all up together, and placed the letter in his pocket, the one next to his heart.
The winds kept blowing. As we drove off, I noticed that the envelope from the old letter was still on my seat … The wind turned it over, and I looked at the wax seal on the back. I had opened the letter so hastily I hadn’t even noticed it before. I assumed it was the symbol of The Nataraj. It wasn’t. It was The Mark of The Three Feathers. I knew I knew it from somewhere.
