Impalas I have known
August 5th, 2010The other day I followed a Chevy Impala a couple of years old, regretting the loss of the graceful badge that model had sported for years — General Motors had decided to plaster the historic Chevrolet “bow tie” insignia on everything with the Chevy name, cutting out anything confusing about the auto’s parentage.
Every time I used to see the impala image — that is, the racing African animal so streamlined it looked like it was flying — I was reminded of a brief episode once when I was in the Congo.
Kids all over the developing world spot Americans and try to sell us something. Good for them.
One day, a little boy held out a tiny baby impala towards me, imploring me to purchase it. Tiny as it was, the animal looked a lot like the Chevy Impala insignia.
It’s an image I’ll never forget. It would be meaningless except that, all my life, I’ve thought of how unlikely it is that “a kid from Tylerville” (a few dozen houses in northern New York’s Jefferson County) would be having such experiences. (My therapist never pried me away from that particular thought. I confess it. At the same time, I revel in the experiences that have taken me all over the world.)
By the way, I never owned a Chevy Impala. A bit high up the model scale for me. My eight year old Malibu is the closest I’ve gotten. — Bob Cramer.