 |
||
 |
||
 |
|
||
|
||
|
|
Snow Day - Part III by G.E. Meyer Oran called the tow truck and he agreed to meet us in an hour at the scene. While we waited, I observed my surroundings and became acquainted with my hosts. We did our phoning from the kitchen which was separated from the family room by an open doorway. A bronze size-by-size refrigerator not only served as a storage for food but a large tiger cat rested among the bottles and boxes on top. Occasionally he would get up, stretch, and see if there were any new developments. When he determined everything was in order he would lie down again. Not wanting to abuse his privileges, he was careful not to disturb things during this routine. A table covered with dirty cups, dishes, and a partly used loaf of bread served as office desk as well as for eating. Seemingly appearing from nowhere was a young man of high school age. He wore a long Army coat and was bare-headed. He took a couple of pieces of bread from the loaf, covered it with catsup and mustard, sliced two hot dogs to make a sandwich and devoured several of them while standing at the table. He didn’t offer, or did he seem expected to prepare any for his brother or father. He then climbed a few steps and disappeared through a hole in the ceiling. The movie finally ended and Mr. Hobart arose and stretched. “Libby called. She wants you to get her groceries.” Libby was Oran’s ex-wife. They seemed to have a very congenial relationship. He had come from her place when he first met me, and now she wanted him to get her groceries. He showed me a picture of his 18-month-old son, which may explain why he wanted to maintain the relationship. Cartoons were starting, so Mr. Hobart resumed his post in front of the TV. I joined him and watched with interest as Elmer Fudd tried in vain to subdue Bugs Bunny. On the shelf above the TV was a line of model cars. They were covered with dust. During a commercial break I asked about the model cars. He had built them himself, and he even leaned over in his chair to point to a locomotive which he had been working on. It showed some painstaking work, especially the cow-catcher which was made with small pieces of stick. The boiler was made from a piece of yellow tile. A thick gray covering of dust indicated that it had been quite a while since he had responded to the fires of creative inspiration. An open-faced oil furnace extending from the floor nearly to the ceiling turned on and off frequently because of the cold. The house was warm while it was running, but when it stopped the cold air immediately crept in around the cracks of the poorly-insulated building. I left my coat on most of the time. Another shelf high up on the wall served as a picture gallery. The centerpiece and by far the most outstanding was of a handsome young man in a soldier’s uniform. “Is that one of your boys?” I inquired. “That’s my boy Jeff. He’s between Oran and Phil.” I now knew all the boys’ names, although no attempt was ever made at formal introductions. The coffee I drank earlier caused an uneasiness with me which I could no longer ignore. As I surveyed the structure which served as home for the Hobarts, I was not able to determine if there was a bathroom. I finally decided to ask, and Mr. Hobart leaned back and pointed to a door which I had not noticed. “Right in there,” he directed. “The light switch is right around the corner.” The sight which presented itself when I switched on the light was comically startling. In the center of the room atop a four foot square platform was a toilet stool. The platform was about a foot higher than the floor. I’m sure there were other furnishings in the room, but the mental image which remains with me is a throne-like stool in the center of an otherwise empty room. Mr. Hobart had settled into his chair again. He was watching the third day in the rerun of the movie “Centennial”. He explained that it was the third day of four. The first day was three hours, the second and third were two hours each, and the last day would be three hours. He was very knowledgeable of the TV schedule. We left Mr. Hobart to go meet the tow truck. I noticed a piece of paper lying on the floor of the pickup. It was a page of notebook paper with long division math problems. It had been graded and a notation in red ink read “Good work”. I asked Oran whose paper it was. “It’s mine. I’m taking my high school at night.” “Really?” “Yep. I never finished high school so I’m going two evenings a week from 7:00 till 9:30.” “How far did you go in school?” “Just finished the eighth grade. I was working on a farm and he offered me full-time work. I thought it would be a good deal. Biggest mistake I ever made.” “How much do you have to do yet?” “I have all my major credits done. I just have to take a course or two of fill-in type work. I should get out this spring.” I was impressed. We drove up to the fence and waited. The proud truck nearly covered with snow stoically faced the storm like a bull buffalo may have 150 years ago. Through the haze and softly falling snow I could make out the silent message to the world, “60 years of good publishing. Tel. 219-773-3164.” I could not feel possessive about the truck. Much like a “lady of the street”, she coolly accepted the affections of many drivers, both past and present, but returned none with feeling. She ran when she felt like it and stopped when she wanted. No one could predict her moods. Ernie Fife, a veteran driver, told of a time when she stopped in downtown Chicago. No reason, she just stopped. After paying a guy $20 for a tow she came home without further protest. Another time she was all loaded up with paper when she would not start for him. Ernie, possibly with more understanding of machines than I, patiently waited for an hour, tried again, and she started without further protest. I’m sure other drivers, if given to complete honesty may relate similar experiences. While we waited we talked. “You much of a mechanic?” I asked. I searched for a little reassurance, since the success of my day depended on Oran’s ability to “fix ‘er himself”. “You got tools?” “Oh yes. Why I took this motor out of this pickup. This here’s a Rambler engine in ‘er now.” I was impressed again. Anyone who can confidently work on a car engine commands my respect. “You mean you can put a Rambler engine in a Chevy?” “Yeah, there’s nuthin’ to it. You just gotta take the engine mounts out with the engine an’ you can sit ‘er right in there.” “I guess you know what you’re doing,” I commented, complimenting him and reassuring myself. Just then a Michigan State Police pulled up behind the truck. “We better get over there. We don’t want him to give you a ticket yet.” I agreed and we rushed across the ditch and onto the highway. The snow was nearly over my boots now. “We’re waiting for the wrecker. It should be here any minute,” Oran explained. “Yeah, we called the tow truck. She quit on me this morning and we’ve been trying to get someone to fix her.” “Okay,” the officer agreed. “We just can’t let it set out here along the road. You should have pulled it off farther.” “Well, you see she just stopped on me,” I explained. “I was just driving along and all of a sudden it was just like someone turned the switch off. I reached down to change the switch from the reserve tank, but it didn’t do any good. Pretty soon I saw this smoke coming...” “Just get it out of here or we’ll have to have it impounded.” He jumped in his car and left. I rode in the truck while it was towed in. It was quiet and cold. And it was a bit humiliating. I wasn’t in control. I felt like a child making motor noises with his lips and pretending to steer. As we descended the hill to Oran’s, the gravity of my predicament struck. If we can’t fix it, how will we explain why we pulled it down into this cul-de-sac? The tow truck could hardly maneuver out and the only way out was up the hill. It was still snowing. |
All Feature Articles, artwork and photographs ©2000 by Southernin.com. Some information on the 'County Info' pages is taken directly from brochures published by Visitors Bureaus and Chambers of Commerce.
