Actually becoming a “walking antique” is different than in the song, or at least as it felt when I first listened to the song those many years ago. Back then it was an interesting image – an intriguing putting into motion; that is, that which is static, like a “still” (a photograph), which is animated like in the move from montage to film. Almost cartoonish.
An antique, usually at least fifty-years old, is generally an object; it is not expected, except in Rube Goldberg apparatus or wind-up cars (and now real cars…Model T’s and A’s!), to move. It sits there and ages. Like a flower, a hedge or a tree – all of which do move as they grow…so no, like something man-made back when such things were made solid and lasting, which is part of how they came to be classified as antiques; they’ve lasted.
Humans make antiques. So to become one is a sign of what? In one sense an antique is sturdy and well built, or at least well taken care of by someone. It often has value beyond the sentimental.
Pushing my late sixties, I’ve seen the aborted looks of the younger generation; that disinterested turn of the eyes. It’s okay, I probably did it too, but now I know how it really feels – sad and comic, at once. It’s better they turn away – especially the artistic ones.
The Millennials tend not to pay much attention to an antique, walking or otherwise. Could be their lose as it was, no doubt, mine.
“But how did that little prick see it so clearly over fifty years ago?” I can hear my long gone friend posing this question. We’d be bundled up, walking in the snow, and I’d have no rational response beyond it was a lucky juxtaposition of verb repositioned as an adverb. “Ah, the brilliance of the image,” Sebastian, the weimaraner, might interject as the snow accumulated.