See it here: https://issuu.com/bhamkidsandfamily/docs/bluff_park_neighborhood_reader_-_may_june_2025/19

You’ve smelt it before. The malodorous scent of spinning tires on asphalt. And you probably hated it.

 I love it.

 I think I was born loving it. I knew the differences in year models of Camaros and Chevelles from the sixties and seventies before I was ten, and my dad found me a 1970 Chevelle when I was twelve.

 Before you get all “can’t hide money” on me, I’m pretty sure Pops was paid to get this car out of the woods. He had a wrecker service at the time, and I remember pulling the car home and smoke pouring out of it. Mind you, it didn’t crank, and I have no idea where the smoke was coming from.

 It was not a super sport, it had a meager 307 cubic inch engine in it, the floorboards were rusted through in spots, there were holes and dents in all quarter panels, the trunk was green while the rest of the car was faded tan, and I don’t recall the front seat being one that was supposed to be in it. When Pops did get it running, it drove like it was trying to move to the closest ditch it could find. But I was foolishly granted a 4-barrel Holley for juice and true dual exhaust for show, and I waited patiently for years before I became the proudest owner of any car that anyone ever knew.

 And the heaviest footed.

 I’ve yelled at so many people driving too fast down my street. It isn’t just me; my neighbors have a hand in it too. I don’t think I’ve seen a teenager drive down Park Terrace in years because we scared them all off. Granted, there are a thousand children running around in the street, half clothed and fully unaware, and I don’t want one of these young drivers to have their entire lives upturned by an accident. But it isn’t fair. Those poor teenage dreamers. They don’t mean anything by it.

 And who am I to speak up?

 Long ago, before I wrapped that old Chevelle around a tree and cried like a baby, I was driving through the neighborhood that led to McKelvey Park, where we all played baseball growing up and a prominent feature of Dadeville, Alabama back in my day. I guess I was driving too fast through there, and an older gentleman yelled at me. Now, I don’t think I was driving that fast. It just sounded like it. But I don’t fault the good sir. I was probably showing off to people who could not have cared any less.

 I’m the recipient of countless speeding and seatbelt citations, as well as lectures from Pops, the latter of which I still don’t get, as if he’s unaware from whence it came. I’m not the ideal spokesperson or proponent for speed bumps and red lights.

 That old car sat for years before Pops, also known as Burnout, was able to hang out and swap favors with a bunch of friends with similarly weird nicknames and lots of time on their hands. “Animal” fixed it up cheerfully, like it was his own, and I drove it one more time several years ago before Pops sold it.

 Animal just recently rode off into the sunset, himself.

 Cars, man.