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Snow Day - Part IV by G.E. Meyer Oran went in to get his tools. He returned with a Phillips screwdriver and immediately set about taking the plastic cover off the dash. I pulled the knobs off the radio and the light switch and had everything off but the choke knob. I was reluctant to reach for it. My aversion to things mechanical comes from this one nemesis fate seems to have dealt me. Everything goes well except one thing, and that one thing usually prevents me from fixing things mechanical. “Surely this time will be an exception. All I have to do is turn the knob to the left.” I turned slowly. It turned easily. It turned and turned and turned and turned easily, but it didn’t come off. “Let me see it,” Oran offered. I gladly let him try. He turned. He looked at it and turned some more, and it still turned easily but didn’t come off. “Do you have a pair of pliers?” It was a rhetorical question because Oran had taken a motor out of a Chevy truck and replaced it with a Rambler engine. He hesitated and my apprehension increased. “I’ll go see.” He returned with a small pair of battery pliers which slipped when any pressure was applied. “Do you have a pair of vice grips?” He didn’t answer so I didn’t press the issue. After turning some more he returned to the house. I felt the cold penetrating as I waited. My spirits were settling as my body temperature dropped. I resorted to a method I used many times during my years of practicing Veterinary Medicine when I found myself in what seemed like an impossible situation. I mentally projected myself ahead to the next day. From that vantage point I could look back and see what happened. I knew that time would come and when it did come I would be able to look back and see how I had solved the problem. Meanwhile, back to the present. Oran returned not with a pair of vice grips, not with a good pair of pliers, but with a utility knife. “If we can’t get it off, we’ll just cut a bigger hole in the plastic.” I cringed, but he wasn’t asking my advice. He immediately set about enlarging the hole. We got it off. Now the only thing was to get the switch loose, find the loose wire and fix it. I started to unscrew the switch knob. It came easily off . . . until I had it almost all the way off. Then it just tightened up. “Let me see it.” Oran innocently turned it. It should have come the rest of the way easily. I knew better. I should have let him do it from the beginning. We finally pried it off with the pliers. One look at the wires told us the situation was more than a simple broken wire. Somewhere from my subconscious the word “wiring harness” came to mind. I seized upon the phrase and tried it on Oran. “I think the entire ‘wiring harness’ is burned up.” Oran never batted an eye. “I think you’re right. It’s going to take someone with specialized equipment and the parts will likely have to be ordered. You better call your office.” “I just got off the phone and call 773-3164.” Ernie Fife offered that bit of homey advice when I asked him how he handled the situation when he, even with his ability and ingenuity was not able to get the truck moving. This advice had come after the fact, however, but I was still reluctant to admit defeat. We made our way back into the house. After being out in the cold the house seemed warm and cozy. “It’s the wiring harness,” Oran explained to his dad. “She’s all burned up.” I was proud that I had come up with an acceptable explanation for the problem, and that Oran had adopted my terminology. “Oh, that’s bad. You won’t be able to fix that will you?” “Nope, he’s going to have to call his office.” The finality of his words snapped the string of hope upon which I hung my fate. The pronoun “he” had now replaced the “we” under which we had operated all day. Was Oran now gently divorcing himself from the problem? No, he was just helping me to face and accept the facts. “Jon?” “Yes, Ed. How is everything going?” He clung to a thread of optimism which I immediately snapped. “Well, I’m afraid I don’t have good news. We got it apart but it’s the wiring harness. The wires from the switch are all melted together. It will take someone with specialized equipment and the parts will likely have to be ordered.” “I see.” “I’m afraid you’ll have to have her towed in.” A period of thoughtful silence ensued, upon which I was not able to improve by any suggestions. “Where are you now?” “I’m here at Hobart’s, the people who have been with me all day.” “Can you wait there until I do some calling?” “Yes, I think so. By the way Jon, how big a load do I have on? Maybe I could get someone to haul them on up to Zondervan’s on a smaller truck.” “I don’t think so. There are about five skids and you would have no way to load the. Wait right there and I’ll call back when I find out something.” I put the phone down. In this particular game in life I had made the last move and now had to wait for another turn. While I waited the events of the day flashed across the screen of my imagination, like an arcade game waiting for someone to play. “Would you like another cup of coffee?” Mr. Hobart called from the other room. I suddenly remembered where I was. “Why yes, I wouldn’t mind.” “Remember which cup you used this morning?” I looked at the empty cups on the table. “I think it was the blue one.” “Go ahead and fix yourself another one,” he invited. “You know where everything is.” This gesture of hospitality was all orchestrated while he remained in his chair. I rinsed the blue cup in the sink and poured myself another cup.” The phone rang again and I let Mr. Hobart answer it. Oran had gone to help some elderly ladies shovel their sidewalks. “It’s for you.” He handed me the phone. “Ed, this is Jon. We called McCormicks and they can’t cross the state line. The Elkhart towing service can come, but they won’t be ableto leave till 3 o’clock. Do you have a place they can meet you?” “The Chicken Coop is just up the hill from where I’m staying with the truck. I could meet them there.” “Hello, Ed. Is that you?” “Why yes. Why?” “What’s this about a chicken coop? You’re not back on the farm, you know.” “Oh, it’s a fast food place, kind of like Kentucky Fried Chicken. It’s just went of the Plainwell turnoff about a quarter of a mile.” Jon sounded relieved. “I was beginning to wonder if you got too cold. okay, I’ll tell them to meet you at the Chicken Coop, what, about 4:30?” “Alright, I’ll be waiting for them.” Mr. Hobart overheard the conversation. He rose from his chair and walked over to me. He moved stiffly, running his fingers through his sparse hair. It had been a hard day for him emotionally. He had spent several hours of suspense as Andy Griffin searched for the missing girl. Even the cartoons which should have been relaxing featured a conflict between Bugs Bunny and Elmer Fudd. He relived the taming of the West in “Centennial” and although not suspenseful, it did require sustained concentration. All this with the added strain of company made for a tiring day and he needed a break. “So, they’re coming to get you?” His voice was soft and controlled. With a little more confidence and purpose, he could have spoken with authority. “They’re sending a tow truck to pick it up. It should be here in about an hour and a half. I’ll meet them up at the Chicken Coop.” “Not very nice out, is it? They’ve been talking about snow all day on TV.” He walked over and peered out the window. “Just you and the boys live here?” I was curious because there was no sign of anything feminine about the entire house. There was no sign of any protracted cleaning having been done. Undisturbed dust lined the walls like drifted snow along a fence row. The place was not littered, but a good cleaning would have done wonders. “Yes. My wife moved out about ten years ago now. She’s living up north now. I guess it was my fault. I was trying to quit smoking and I guess I got pretty mean.” “The boys stayed with you, huh?” “Well, they were up there for a while. Phil stayed the longest. Then he moved back too. Yep, we just been living here by ourselves.” He evidenced no regret or hard feelings. He just stated the facts. We moved back into the family room and he resumed his seat in front of the TV. I found a vacant place at the end of the sofa. There was nothing on TV demanding his immediate attention so Mr. Hobart relaxed and became talkative. “We bought this house from some Mexicans. I’ve done quite a lot of work on it myself but I have a lot to do yet. I do construction work when the weather’s fit. Can’t do much this kind of weather.” “You’re right about that” I agreed, suddenly beginning to think I may have underestimated him. After all, it wasn’t him who was stranded in the snow storm and had to camp in someone else’s house. He was home and I was his guest. “I’ve got to put a new septic system in next summer. I dug the hole last summer and put the tank in. I didn’t have time to finish the plumbing.” Suddenly the unique arrangement in the bathroom made sense. “You dug the hole for the septic tank yourself?” “Yup, it’s a lot cheaper than hiring it done.” “I noticed the building permit nailed to your wall when I came in.” “Yeah, they won’t let you do anything without a building permit any more. Danged politicians, always trying to get their hands in your pocket. I just built that garage a few years ago. That’s when I got the building permit.” The door opened and Phil came in, covered with snow. He smiled as he passed and looked down at the sofa. He walked in the other room and I heard him open the refrigerator door. Then he opened another door and I heard him talking. There was a slight flurry of excitement as a young Brittany dog excitedly greeted him, then bounded into the family room and greeted Mr. Hobart. He scratched her ears and patted her, causing her entire body to wiggle with excitement. She then jumped up on the other end of the sofa and regarded me questioningly. “Hi pup,” I said. “You don’t know me, do you?” I reached over and patted her head. She wagged her tail in response. Satisfied that all was well, she curled up and enjoyed the warmth of the room. Phil continued to move about restlessly. He responded respectfully but not enthusiastically to my attempts at conversation. I told him about our boy, Curt, and how he liked basketball and wrestling, now that basketball season was over. I asked about school. Then I realized what was wrong. I was in his space. His routine when coming home from school was to first get something to eat, then let the dog in, and after that sit down and watch TV with his dad. Since there was limited space in the small house, it did pose a problem. I respect the importance of routine. Everyone needs a retreat where he can feel completely at ease and get all the pieces of his life properly fitted together again. “Am I sitting in your place?” I asked lamely. “Oh, that’s alright. I’ve been sitting all day.” “Here, you sit here.” I started to get up. “No, no, you stay there. I’ve got some other things to do. He remained standing, but when his dad went for a cup of coffee, Phil quickly settled in his chair. The angle of the TV was such that he could have squeezed in between me and the dog. I surmised that was the way the three of them handled it. Oran returned and the family was complete. His shoes were wet as he had no boots on. I asked if he had waterproof shoes. “No, my feet are wet clear through.” He responded to the interest I had shown for his shoes. “I wear these shoes on my roofing job in the summer. See how the soles are all worn on the bottom? That’s the way they get climbing around on those roofs.” He raised his feet and turned the soles of his feet so I could better observe them. After spending the day in such an unproductive way, I felt I needed to bolster my own self-esteem. “I’m a veterinarian.” I announced bluntly. “I drive this truck on my days off.” I had wanted to make the announcement more casual, but time was running out and I would soon have to b going. “I sold my practice and am working for the State of Indiana now. We get quite a bit of time off.” “Did you show him Bruno?” Oran looked to Phil. “No, he hasn’t been in.” Phil went to the door and produced a large black dog with a few white patches. “He’s a purebread Lab. I’ve had him about a year now. Can you believe he was only this big when I brought him home?” He cupped his hands to demonstrate his size. “I can believe it,” I assured him. I found it harder to believe he was a purebred Lab. “He’s a vet, Dad.” Oran announced as Mr. Hobart returned from the kitchen. “A what?” “He’s a veterinarian. He doctors animals.” “Oh, is he?” He didn’t seem impressed. “You know Susie’s been vomiting some,” Oran announced. “What do you think could be wrong with her? I was going to get her some worm pills.” “Has she been in heat lately?” I found myself starting to do a workup. “About two weeks ago. Why? Would that make her vomit?” “Probably not. It would probably be a good idea to give her some worm pills. Then if that didn’t help you could go from there.” It was nearly 4 o’clock so I set out for the Chicken Coop. We knew this was not a final parting because we all anticipated the drama which would ensue when the tow truck found us parked at the bottom of the hill. |
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