When we moved to a new town in 1982, my dad and I noticed a nice 1968 Barracuda convertible sitting in a driveway around the corner. It had a 340 and a 4-speed, and was in very nice condition. We knocked at the door, and an older lady told us it belonged to her son, and he was going to fix it up some day. I made several more inquiries about the car over the years as I grew up, but the answer was always the same. Now, almost thirty years later, the car is still sitting in the exact same spot. The old lady must be in her 90s. I don't live in that town anymore, but I sometimes pass by. It's now covered by a blue plastic tarp, which occasionally rots away or blows off, and is now rotten beyond repair and worthless other than for parts. Makes me sad.