Reflections – Winter Holidays – A Season of Prolonged Hope  

  

Maverick in Shop Waiting for Spence

This year winter holidays brought a green Christmas, a white New Year’s, and the prolonged separation between Spence and his beloved Maverick pickup.

 

The separation began on what Spence dubbed his “First Thanksgiving,” Wednesday, November 26. While driving home from Malady’s Meat Market, with our fresh ten pound turkey, a tree crashed into the road and hit the pickup. 

 

Why was Spence thankful? “The tree crushed the bumper. It didn’t kill me.”

 

Gratitude changed to hope. December 12, Spence brought me a cup of herbal tea while I wrote at my desk. His face glowed like a little boy reciting a list of Christmas wishes. “I dreamed the body shop called. My truck is ready.”

 

Should I play the Grinch, temper his enthusiasm, and cushion the disappointment he would certainly receive? “When they take off the bumper on December twenty-second, they’ll find broken parts they need to order. They won’t finish repairs in one day, Spence.”

 

He’d waited 390 days for his Maverick after he placed the order with the Titusville Ford dealer. At least this wait would be shorter.

 

Spence boogalooed in place. “Runyan’s could have a cancellation. And they already ordered parts.”

 

I let him have his wish. Reality would hit soon enough.

 

Later that day Spence drove my manual transmission Crosstrek to Giant Eagle. Because he hobbled without the brace for his ruptured Achilles tendon, and because he couldn’t feel the clutch engage if he wore the brace, Spence adapted. He wore the brace, pulled the driver’s seat all the way forward, and pressed the clutch to the floor. Though uncomfortably intimate with the steering wheel, he didn’t stall—much. Spence needed his Maverick.

 

Carrying two cartons of carbonated water, he burst into the kitchen where I was folding dishtowels. He set the cartons on the table. “I visited my Maverick in Matt’s parking lot. I didn’t want it to feel forgotten.”

 

Crushed Bumper

Hope swirled through him like bubbles in carbonated water. Spence looked forward to a call from Runyan’s on December 22. The phone didn’t ring that day. Not even a telemarketer called.

 

Spence spiraled into a bizarre sequence similar to repeating scenes from the Groundhog Day movie. 

 

Spence called Runyan’s on Tuesday, December 23. “This is Spencer Wells. I’m calling about my Maverick.” His cheery voice changed to cautious. “Okay . . . I see . . . ” Sadness twinged his “Thanks.”

He pursed his lips. “They’re waiting for parts. They’re working fewer days because of holidays.” He let out a breath as mighty as a polar vortex. “The truck won’t be ready until January second.”

 

On New Year’s Day, company arrived. Our daughter Ellen and son-in-law Chris entertained us with stories about her clueless doctoral students. As Lyra and Phoenix rushed to the sliding glass door to bark at snowplows and squirrels, their corgi nails clicked on the wood floors. I’d hoped this four-day visit would distract Spence from his truck, but . . .

 

Spence called Runyan’s on Friday, January 2. While corgis circled his feet, he gripped his cell phone. “Okay . . . I see . . . When?”

 

Spence disconnected and answered my questioning look. “Some parts didn’t arrive. The Maverick will be ready the end of next week.”

 

Spence called Runyan’s on Thursday, January 8 and said, “Oh, geez.”

 

He told me, “A part came in yesterday—damaged. Matt said Monday.” Spence scowled. “Something will happen. I’m not getting my hopes up again.”

 

But he did.

 

Over the weekend, we pulled on boots, slipped into winter jackets, and grabbed umbrellas for a splashy health walk. I planted my feet between potholes filled with muddy water.

 

Spence paced quietly beside me.

 

Figuring I’d cheer him, I said, “You’ll get your truck tomorrow.”

 

An anguished moan—louder than gushing Deer Creek, the rain pounding our umbrellas, and the gurgling side streams altogether—escaped his throat. He turned his head toward me. Grief etched his face and pierced my soul. “Tomorrow’s Sunday,” he whispered.

 

Spence called Runyan’s on Monday, January 12 at 1:50 p.m. He focused on birds swooping to the feeder while he listened without asking questions. His, “Okay, thanks,” ended the call.

 

“Well?” I asked.

 

“Matt has to recharge the AC. If . . .” Spence gulped a reassuring breath. “If everything goes smoothly, he’ll put the bumper on. We’ll get the truck today. I’ll drive it to Cleveland tomorrow.”

 

Did everything go smoothly?

 

Nope.

 

Matt called Spence at 4:30 p.m.

 

Spence gave me the news in a monotone. “The new Freon took longer to load than the old kind. Matt’s staying late to finish.” Spence stifled a laugh. “Matt wants the truck out of his shop. He’ll call at eight-thirty tomorrow morning.”

 

Matt didn’t call.

 

Spence called Runyans’ on January 13 at 9:20 a.m. “This is Spencer Wells. Matt said he would call. I have to go to Cleveland this morning.” Spence straightened in his kitchen chair. “Really? We’ll be right there.”

 

He punched the red “stop” button and reached for his jacket.

 

At Runyan’s, Matt and his young assistant, both with spiky hair, stood as still as parked vehicles behind a chest-high counter. Beside me, Spence looked on, speechless. Evidently all three expected me to pull out a checkbook and write numbers. No way. “I want to see the Maverick.”

 

“It’s in the third bay.” Matt accelerated out of the office and led me past two sedans with various body parts missing. The Maverick wore well-earned road dust in back but shone bright, hot chili red in front.

 

Ever curious, I asked, “What part came in damaged?”

 

The assistant fetched an aluminum frame that would span the front of the Maverick. “This goes behind the grill. These two fringe pieces were bent.” He fingered a pair of four- by-four-inch tabs at the bottom. “When Matt bent them back into shape, they cracked. So he took the frame from your truck, hammered those tabs into shape, and soldered a small crack.”

 

I asked Matt, "Where did you get the replacement parts?”

 

“Some were recovered parts. We ordered others from Titusville Ford. A hose took over a week to get here.” Matt opened the hood and beckoned to Spence. “While I was bolting the grill on last night, I discovered two broken brackets.” He touched two black bits. “On the top of the radiator here and above the left headlight. I’ll order them.” He gently closed the hood. “I’ll need the truck back to replace those.”

 

Spence clutched the door handle.

 

“That can be another day.” Matt waved a hand at the Maverick. “I drove the truck around last night. Nothing rattles. It’s safe.”

 

Whipping the checkbook out of my purse before Matt changed his mind, I headed for the counter and wrote numbers.

 

Spence and I walked to the parking lot while the assistant backed the Maverick out of the bay. He handed Spence the keys.

 

After forty-eight days, Spence’s season of hope became a season of joy. The prolonged separation ended on what he dubbed his “Second Thanksgiving.”

Spence has his Maverick—for now.

Spence Taking a Quiet Moment to Settle into His Maverick

 

 

Reflections – Leaves Throughout the Year

January

Ivy Leaves

Every January, the year begins again with whispers of possibilities that didn’t exist before.

Maya Angelou

February

Beech Leaves

 

Trees are poems that the earth writes upon the sky.

Kahlil Gibran

March

Skunk Cabbage Leaves

 

See those green cabbage buds lifting the dry leaves in that watery and muddy place. There is no can’t nor cant to them. They see over the brow of winter’s hill. They see another summer ahead.

The Journal of Henry David Thoreau

April

River Willow Leaves

Planting a tree is a gesture of faith in the future.”

The Comfort of Crows by Margaret Renkl

May

Trillium Leaves on the Woods Floor

That is one good thing about this world - there are always sure to be more springs.

Anne of Avonlea by Lucy Maud Montgomery

June

Black Walnut Leaves

Life on earth is inconceivable without trees.

Anton Chekhov

July

Scarlet Oak Leaves

The creation of a thousand forests is in one acorn

Ralph Waldo Emerson

August

Sassafras Leaf

Learn character from trees, values from roots, and change from leaves.

Tasneern Harneed

September

Floating Leaves

Autumn is a second spring when every leaf is a flower.

Albert Camus

October

 

Leaves Down a Country Road

Walker, there is no road,

the road is made by walking

Proverbs and Songs by Antonio Machado

November

Wood Ferns

Like ferns we unfold with time, we root deep and we rise gracefully.

Instagram Post by wolff_caro

December

 

Poinsettia Leaves

December is a time to reflect on the blessings of the past year and to embrace the opportunities of the coming one.

Oprah Winfrey

 Reflections - Foiled by a Polar Vortex

Half Birthday Card

On November 26, Spence’s half birthday, wind howled. I figured Spence would have forgotten his 78½ and I could surprise him with a card. I’d used a blanket stitch to attach a patch of fabric decorated by a green pepper, red tomato, and shaker of spices. Inside I wished him savory eats, smooth rides, and a worry free half-year. My wishes were bound to come true. We would celebrate Thanksgiving tomorrow, he loved driving his Maverick pickup, and he often said, “I’m not worried.”

I didn’t surprise him.

Spence picked the envelope up off the breakfast table. “A half birthday card.” He opened the envelope and read the card. “Thank you.”

Perhaps if he foresaw what the day held, he wouldn’t have thanked me.

At 11:00 a.m., he drove to Meadville to fetch our fresh, ten pound turkey at Malady's Meat Market plus brave Giant Eagle for a few last minute items. The day before Thanksgiving grocery store crush? I didn’t envy him.

Instead, over the phone, I answered my friend Darlene’s questions about her memoir/self help book for widows. Then I chopped the stuffing ingredients. The ciabatta smooshed under the bread knife if I didn’t cut at a precise angle. Celery behaved better but left dangly strings. And the pungent onions made my eyes water like the cat fountain. I sniffed and blinked so I didn’t contaminate the chopped bits. My stomach growled—way past lunch time. I warmed homemade chicken barley soup, sipped two spoonfuls, and wondered, Shouldn’t Spence be back by now?

The phone rang.

“A tree hit me.” Spence’s voice quavered through the line. “Pick me up at Matt’s.”

I dropped the spoon. “I’ll be right there.” 

Hustling to fetch keys and a coat, I replayed his words in my mind. A tree hit me.

Had he swerved to miss a vehicle and ran off the road?

Had his Maverick malfunctioned and ran off the road?

Had he been injured when he ran off the road?

More questions bubbled through my mind but I ignored them. Focus. Race to the Crosstrek. Drive to Matt’s auto shop. Find Spence.

In Matt’s parking lot, I found Spence—leaning against his beloved Maverick with the passenger side bumper crushed and pushed upward. I parked beside the bashed pickup and stepped out.

Spence was talking to Cody, Matt’s mechanic. Buffeted by the high wind, Cody’s hair pointed skyward. The fellas stared at the pickup’s smashed front. One murmured, “leaking coolant and oil.” Then they swerved their funeral faces toward me.

Cody said to Spence, “The Maverick’s not safe to drive. Order a tow.” He waved at me and walked into the warm shop.

Spence said, “We need to take the groceries out.” He gathered plastic bags from the truck's back seat. “My clipboard’s on the front seat. Will you get it?”

I found the turkey beside the clipboard and carried them both to the car. I stashed them behind the driver’s seat. Spence put his load behind the passenger seat. With both of us settled inside the Crosstrek, I steered out of the parking lot.

Since Spence appeared unharmed, I didn’t hold my questions any longer. “What happened? How did the tree hit you? Did you run off the road?” 

 

“A tree blew down . . . Wait.” He turned in the passenger seat and pointed at Matt’s. “The turkey’s on the front seat.”

 “I picked the turkey up when I got your clipboard.” I continued driving down the country road. “Where were you when the tree fell?”

Spence stared at the road. Was he watching for falling trees? “I was driving on Mercer Pike. I heard the tree break.  I didn’t even see it. It hit the bumper.” He shuddered. “The truck kept going, crunching over the tree. The engine light flashed immediately.” He wiped his forehead. “I’ve cleared many trees off that road. I didn’t want to be stuck. I wanted to get to Matt’s. I put my flashers on and kept moving.” 

Damaged Maverick

Back home, I pulled the car onto the parking pad out front. We each lugged bundles of groceries up the ramp and into the house. The three tabbies met us at the door. Only Rills, the smallest and the one with a ferocious appetite, swarmed around our legs. We unpacked the groceries.

Spence grabbed the spare keys for the Crosstrek. “I’m driving to Cochranton. I’ll report the accident to Pendersen’s. Then I’ll get an appointment with Runyan’s. And I’ll order a tow.”

Reporting the accident to our insurance company and securing a spot on the waiting list at the body shop made sense. But he shouldn’t be driving the Crosstrek with a clutch. He’d been wearing a brace for his ruptured Achilles tendon for months. The brace made it difficult to push the clutch to the floor and prevented him from feeling the clutch engage. I stuck my arm back into my coat. “I’ll drive you.”

“I can manage the clutch. It’s just difficult.” He walked out before I got my other arm into the coat.

Gilbert jumped onto the table and swished his fluffy tail over the soup bowl. Right. I hadn’t finished lunch. I lifted the tabby off the table, slipped out of the coat, and warmed the soup again.

Lights blinked off for a second. Gilbert blinked at the silence in the house. While I finished eating and washed the lunch and stuffing prep dishes, the lights browned out twice. The wind howled outside. I hoped Spence didn’t encounter any more downed trees.  

He didn’t. 

But when he returned, looking sheepish, he walked inside, settled on the sofa with his buddy Rills, and said, “I stalled out four times in three miles. I’ll have to drive without my brace.”

“When is your appointment?” We live in deer country. I figured he would have to wait two-and-a-half-months for body work. Deer darted across our rural roads with the reckless abandon of children escaping school for the holidays. Dented vehicles were more common than red trucks.

“Not until December twenty-second.” He pouted under his mustache. “Someone canceled just before I arrived. I got their spot.” 

“Terrific. You were lucky to score an appointment so soon.” Perhaps they let Spence take the cancellation because he couldn’t drive his truck. Others could drive their dented vehicles safely.

Spence didn’t agree. “That’s a long time to wait.”

I didn’t remind him the body shop would only start repairs that day. He couldn’t drive his beloved truck home then.

Rills snuggled against Spence while he read his email.

The lights cut off again at 4:17 p.m. Silence inside. Wind howled outside. At the kitchen table, I waited for Aimee Eddy’s blog, “First Thanksgiving Week Off in Thirty Years,” to unfreeze on the computer screen, the kitchen lights to flick on, and the refrigerator with our fresh turkey inside to hum.

None happened.

The pendulum clock on the wall ticked. Outside wind howled. Twilight faded.

I pushed back my chair and climbed the spiral stairs in the fleeting afternoon light to fetch the battery powered lamp from the loft sewing table. The light blazed inside our dim log house. Back downstairs, I dragged a chair to the counter, clambered onto the seat, and pulled out herbal tea cartons in front of the hexagon corner cupboard. I reached into the back and, fumbling, grabbed the tucked away gifted candles I’d received over the years.

Across the open space room, Spence nudged his buddy away and set his laptop on the coffee table. “Sorry, Rillzie.” He grabbed a flashlight from the kitchen drawer and headed downstairs to our son’s mancave. Murmurs of men’s voices reached me. Spence tramped back upstairs. “I’ll fetch water. Then I’ll make a fire.” He bundled and went outside.

Charlie trudged upstairs and handed me the flashlight. He yawned and pointed at a light clamped on his shirt. The poor fella must have been ready to sleep, a routine because of his early shift at UPS. He clomped back downstairs.

Sometimes our rural blackouts last nearly a week. Since our water is pumped from the well by electricity, filling five gallon buckets with the cistern water for toilet flushing, allows us to conserve the well water already in our intake tank, filtered tank, and hot water tank for dish washing and sanitary needs.

I powered down my cell phone, computer, and iPad to save their batteries. 

Carrying armfuls of logs from the woodshed, Spence hobbled up the porch steps.

I twisted junk mail for burning. At least this time the advertisements served a purpose.

Spence loaded the fire box of the wood stove and lit the paper. Flames leapt. Kindling snapped. The scent of burning logs floated in the air.

Essential tasks accomplished, Spence asked, “What do you want for dinner?”

“Enchiladas.” We’d decided that earlier. I still wanted them.

“Enchiladas?” His face blanched. He bit his lip. “I guess that’s possible.”

He bustled from the kitchen area to the wood stove.

Holding a candle high, I walked toward the bedroom. Thump. My foot hit a furry lump in the hall. I wobbled. Cat claws scratched the wood floor. I didn’t know which of the three tabbies I’d bumped. Alas, I couldn’t find the poor cat in the dark to snuggle him and say sorry. At least I hadn’t fallen.

Spence yelled. “What are you doing?”

“Getting my Jane Austen puzzle book. I ran into a cat.”

“Be careful.”

I shuffled the rest of the way.

Flickering candlelight added romance to Spence’s concoctions. He topped my not-too-spicy enchiladas with just the right amount of sauce. His coleslaw and grilled steak fit my savory wish for him. In our comfortable conversation pauses, I pondered roasting the turkey on top of the wood stove for Charlie and us tomorrow. I could forget oven times and rely on a meat thermometer. I would roast the rest of the meal while the turkey cooled. No worries.

“Don’t wash dishes until tomorrow,” Spence said, breaking my reverie.

“Right.” I hadn’t planned on washing dishes by candlelight. I would miss too much. Besides, I could conserve water better in daylight.

Spence retreated to the sofa, snuggled all three cats, and read with a book light.

I picked up in the kitchen and lined eight candles on the table to solve word searches from Northanger Abbey.

Logs crackled in the firebox. Human and cat snores drifted from the sofa.

I blew out the candles, held the battery powered lamp aloft, and tiptoed past the sleepers on my way to bed. Around midnight, I woke. Lights leaked into the bedroom from the open space room. Grateful, I fell into a deeper, restful sleep. 

The next day, while Spence poured olive oil onto my hands so I could rub the turkey, he said, “I didn’t sleep well. I kept thinking if I’d been five seconds later. The tree would’ve hit the windshield. And me.”

Off and on since Thanksgiving, Spence has repeated, “If I’d been seconds later.” He shakes his head and presses his lips together. He frequently mourns his Maverick. “I miss my truck . . . It’s a long time to wait.” Without his brace, he’ll manage the clutch in the Crosstrek.

I still wish Spence savory eats, smooth rides, and a worry free half-year. Because of the polar vortex, he’ll have to wait until January for the second two wishes.

He’s adaptable.

He’s resilient.

He’s worth celebrating.

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