Most people are junk collectors. Take a look at our drawers, cabinets, shelves, and bags and chances are there will be items inside that we have no use for but just don’t have the heart to throw away or part with.

Old ballpoint pens with no ink, papers and receipts we have no use for, trinkets long been useless, business cards of people we never see again, calendars and planners of years long past; these all clutter our lives, we know it and yet we try to live with it.

The biggest spaces are taken up by big ticket items like electronics; old stereos, mobile phones, speakers, game consoles, books, radios and cars.

Yes, cars!

I have seen cars in people’s garage that can’t, and will probably never, run again collecting rust and dust but still the owner keeps them.

The reason?

The hope of one day restoring and bringing them back to their former glory.

But these hopes seldom come true. The cars will remain in the garage, under a tree or in the corner of a lot rusting away until some restoration nut finds it and asks if they can take the trash off the owner’s hands.

Chances are, however, if the owner is first generation, the restorer will be refused. The best chance is to wait out the original owner and ask the children. Unless the child is like me, who is also fascinated with old cars.

And therein lies the burden of junk.

My father has about a dozen old cars. The models range from American-made to German and Japanese, from the 60’s, 70’s and 80’s. It is not so unusual for their generation to collect cars because those were the days of cheap gasoline.

Today those cars lounge around in our farm in the province, in barely restored almost junk condition trying very hard to look attractive but failing except to my father and my eyes.

A collector one time came to the old house and asked to buy the 1967 Mustang for a crazy price of P600,000. Really, if my father was making an ordinary TV sales deal, he would have grabbed the offer and locked the guy into perdition.

But this was his Mustang and he flatly refused the offer.

Another time a good friend asked how much he would sell his second generation VW Kombi. My father refused but I pressed him to sell. So he did give a price, a ridiculous amount of P500,000. Of course, my friend said never mind. You see, the price my father gave was meant to drive away the persistent buyer.

There are many more of these stories. I have my own. I own a 1986 BMW 320i E30. It is in a shop not doing anything because some parts could not be found anymore. One day a friend calls me to ask if he could have the BMW for a very reasonable price. It was at a time when I actually needed money. But for some sentimental reason I refused to sell.

Why would we, my father and I, refuse to sell certified junks you may ask. And most times, when I look at the cars I ask myself the same question, why not get rid of it and earn some money and buy newer models that actually run?

And the answer is simple: Our burden in keeping junk cars is actually our romance with these oldies. When we first saw them, we fell in love with them. We touched and caressed them with intimacy, sinfully bordering on idolatry.

We took care of them, washed, waxed and wiped them like they were our children (or maybe even our lovers.) These cars were our companions in many adventures and misadventures, both in our youth and in middle years. They were witnesses to many firsts in our lives. They represent as much memories as photographs, sometimes even more because of those times when photos could not catch the moment.

It is these memories, these moments that keep us glued to these aged rust buckets. So much so that when we look at them, we do not see junk, we see our first kiss, or the first time we touched the hands of our wives, or the first long drive with our son, or the time when we taught our son to drive.

We go back in time with each ride. I look at the Mustang and I remember taking my first date to CCP for a late look at Manila Bay after washing it for six weeks to convince my father I can take care of the car.

I look at my BMW and remember my drive up to the province to witness the birth of my only son. I look at the Kombi and I reminisce about antics with my dear old friends, some near, some far and some now up in heaven. I look at the 1979 Toyota Corona and I remember my drive through the mountains almost crashing into the ravine, being saved by a small post on the side of the road.

Keeping these trash metals is not out of frivolity for my father nor I. I have no idea why my father keeps these cars, but I have enumerated some of mine and I guess it would be much in the same tone and timbre if my father wrote this piece.

It is a burden to keep these old cars.

When they stop running we find it so difficult to part with them, much the way we find it hard to leave a loved one, that we try and keep them beside us for as long as we possibly can.

But if only for the memories they bring us, I would endure this burden for as long as I can. Because the memories are worth keeping, even if the ride does not run anymore.

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