The Little French Car in Paris
WRITTEN B Y
Stan Cheren
With a little help from my friends
© R A N C H O PA R K P U B L I S H I N G • 2 0 2 0
www.TheLittleFrenchCar.org
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he sun inched quietly across the factory parking lot where the new cars shone like a field of metal flowers. The Little French Car shook her gray chassis to clear her head of the loud factory noises—the clink-clunk-clunk of the conveyor belts and the banging of heavy machinery. The bright, green car next to her sneered, “Your gray color is so dull.” “Dull? Am I really dull?” she thought sadly. Why hadn’t they sprayed her body tomato red or tinted her canvas top buttercup yellow?
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any miles and hours away, the Little French Car found herself blinded by the glaring lights in a Paris showroom. Business men in dark suits and shiny, black shoes crowded around her, gawking, peering inside her trunk and poking at her engine. “I wish I were still at the farm with the donkeys and daisies, or racing down a country road,” she whispered to herself. Suddenly a young man dressed in faded jeans patted her hood and murmured, “I love your quiet color and that handsome swirl on your front door. I’ve never seen a Deux Chevaux like you.”
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“How can you say that with all these bright and colorful cars around me?” protested the Little French Car. “Mademoiselle, you’re beautiful and you talk, too?”, said Luc. The little car perked up. She knew she had been built with a sturdy body, but she never thought of herself as being beautiful. “But Maman said I must get a van,” continued the young man, “Will you really have room for all her flowers?” “Certainly,” said the Little French Car, “My trunk is roomy enough to haul bags of potatoes and my backseat moves out easily so I can carry baskets of fresh eggs. And with my top rolled back, there’s room for flowers as tall as trees.” If only he would buy me, she thought.
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