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