The Hubcap of Life

There it is, the surviving trophy of my childhood: a still shiny hubcap off of a Plymouth, circa 1953. I was under ten—blanking on the exact age—and on a quest to buy a 10-cent soda at a gas station about a mile from my home when I found “it” in a gully along a country road. The gas station sold “lost” hubcaps for $10—remember this is the 1950’s—so I was suddenly filled with potential riches. I returned home and hid it in the basement.

I don’t remember the events that happened over the next few weeks, but whatever the story, I forgot about the hubcap. A few years later when I was confident the hubcap was mine to keep, I hung it on the back of the basement door. Eventually, the door was better served to hold a dart board, so the hubcap was put in a box and forgotten again.

Now, nearly 60 years later, the hubcap has become my Rosebud. Soon I will sit down and concentrate on why this hubcap has followed me for almost my entire life. But for now it is yard art. The photo on the left focuses on the ship—the travel of my life– while the other photo uses the hubcap as a self-portrait vehicle—I’m the reflection to the right—wearing SF Giants orange.