Views of my favorite old fire engine. I know, on one level, that he is an inanimate object. A truck. Metal and glass and rubber. An engine that ceased running years ago. A fire truck whose time came and went.
Despite knowing this, I feel like this old truck holds history in his rusty body. Memories. Fires, rescues. History.
I know I’m not the only one who feels this way because the countryside has many veteran trucks and other vehicles quietly rusting in fields, often keeping company with the growing corn and the grazing cows and sheep.
We invest our things with personality. Maybe we can’t help it. We are alive and we share at least the sense of life with those things with which we share our world.