Much of my life has revolved around cars. Many of my memories start in the junkyard and end in the garage. My dad taught me the proper way to wash a vehicle and I ran crying to my mom the day he forgot to let me ArmorAll the tires. As a baby my dad would set my carseat where engines should be as he climbed through mounds of metal. When I was four I begged him to open up the doors of his work car for the birds in the winter. At nine I sat on our back stoop crying as he went through a mid-life crisis and a strange man drove away in Miss Daisy, our ’55 chevy. In the summer of my tenth year I needed stitches and was driven to the hospital in our blue Astro that then refused to shut off and ended up running in the parking lot six hours strait. I learned to drive in a Chevy Malibu he named Barbie and in I turn named his Ford Ranger Ken. This past summer he began teaching me stick in a ’55 Chevy he’s owned for over thirty years. I could go on with these stories forever; so many of my memories are linked to one of the countless vehicles of my youth, and therefore it makes a whole lot of sense that cars quite often catch the attention of my camera.
Each year the Upper Cruise falls in September just around my dads birthday, and each year we go with one vehicle or another. It’s a tradition I look forward to, a place I watch my whole family (uncles, aunts, cousins, grandparents) get overly excited about driving down the strip around five miles an hour. My Uncle Gary always orders a pizza, my dad always packs a lunch of celery and carrots and my cousins and I always eat our weight in jellybeans. I can count on those things. I can count on riding in the back of at least one truck, running into at least half of my graduating class and my Uncle Ron inevitably winning a door prize. Every year I go home to attend this event and I’ve yet to be disappointed.
Week 4 – Upper Cruise, Upper Sandusky, OH