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.”
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| 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.
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| Crushed Bumper |
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.
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| Spence Taking a Quiet Moment to Settle into His Maverick |
