The old Mooney family garden had laid fallow, unworked for years. “More than five, less than twenty,” was George’s best guess. It had degraded into a leeland, a waste of space serving no purpose, choked with weeds and miles of snarled baling twine carelessly dumped on the ground where it wound its way into the grass roots. On the far northern edge just beyond the garden fence a couple of cars could be seen poking up out of the ground. Not car parts, but cars.
George said that back in the olden days the Mooneys were poorer than the poorest dirt, so the boys dug deep pits and buried their dead cars because it was cheaper than calling a wrecker. It was a literal car graveyard. There were a few more rigs that had been pushed down the hill on the north forty of the property, some with trees growing through their rusted floorboards. Since then George had changed his ways. Now he lined up all of his dead rides in what was termed Automobile Death Row, and they stretched halfway down the long driveway.
Nigel was duly impressed with the display. The couple of classics he’d brought to the Farm were head-turners, in a nostalgic horror show sort of way. His vintage milk delivery van got a lot of looks, though mostly it was from folks innocently asking if the thing had fallen off a cliff and caught on fire. The old Plymouth rolled on in, then was lifted onto blocks and never moved again. And his bike, held together with superglue and electrical tape, was in a perpetual state of disrepair. Nigel thought they were the hottest rods in the county and gave them pet names, parking them all directly across from George’s row of junk metal.
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