It all started with me leaving my underwear in an ice machine. That’s what led me to Gessling Road in Glenmont.
It wasn’t an ice machine per se. It was one of those huge freezers used to vend bags of ice cubes — the ones with the ubiquitous signs taped to the door that say “Please Pay First.”
How my underwear ended up in one of them is another story for another time. And probably for another blog. Suffice it to say that, while driving aimlessly around the back roads that parallel the Mohican River, I remembered leaving my long johns and a few other items in the icebox. I stopped by to retrieve them.
It was then that the I remembered my friend Gretchen Conrad had mentioned that there were old car hulls to be seen along Gessling Road. I could look at old cars all day. In fact, my idea of a perfect vacation would be driving from junkyard to junkyard and wandering through, examining the hulls of old vehicles.
Gretchen was right. I found at least three vehicles along the way, including one used as a sign for a restoration business.
My favorite was an early ’60s Comet, 1961 as near as I could tell. I’ve had two of them. One I inherited from my maternal grandmother. She’d never driven it on the highway, probably never drove it over 30 mph. The first time I took it on I-71, it began belching blue smoke and later developed an insatiable appetite for motor oil.
The second was also a gift, from a neighbor of my first wife. He made mass-produced paintings, which he sold at starving artist sales to supplement his income. The Comet was festooned with samples of his work on the door panels and the trunk lid. I abandoned it at a Greyhound bus station when I went into some sort of fugue state and ended up in Tucson.
I snapped out of it a few weeks later, returned to Ohio and reclaimed my identity. Seems no one else wanted it.
But that’s another story for another blog, a blog that might exist in some parallel universe — not unlike Gessling Road.
Here are a few photos from the latter: