Snow Day - Part II
by G.E. Meyer

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As we left the garage the tow truck was waiting. We had to tell him we would call him back when we found someone to work on it. As we crawled back into Oran’s pickup I determined to ask Dale the size of the truck and how old it was the next time I saw him. Dale always seemed knowledgeable about such things. He had probably logged more time in the truck than anyone else, and had worked at the Press long enough to know the innerworkings of the entire organization.

Oran could be Paninwell’s version of Dale. There were similarities. Both were self-assured. Both seemed to know everyone in their communities. And both would drop everything to help someone who was in trouble. While Dale’s intensity and enthusiasm were constant, Oran’s seemed to need a crisis situation to spark his. I provided that crisis on this cold snowy day in mid-February.

“Let’s stop here for a while,” Oran suggested as he found a driveway between two fast food restaurants. We descended a hill and pulled up in front of a small adobe-type house. The house was architecturally basic: one square block sitting atop another square block. To the side was a rectangular block slightly smaller in size than the foundation block. If my description sounds simple, it is because the structure was simple. A roof extending about two feet beyond the basic structure covered each level of the building. It was painted flat yellow and trimmed in flat brown. The flat brown trim may have been weathered-yellow.

Oran led the way through the single door leading into the larger of the two rooms on the lower level. This was likely the family room because it housed the TV. Reclining on a worn Lazy-Boy chair about five feet from the TV was an elderly gentleman. He was smoking, and a cigarette stand was positioned about six inches from the arm of the chair, requiring little effort for flicking his ashes. He was intensely engrossed in an old Andy Griffith movie. He told me later during a commercial break that it was about a murdered girl whose body the authorities were not able to locate.

Mr. Hobart, Oran’s father, was a tall slim man with a professorial air. He had a graying Lincolnesque beard and silver-framed glasses that rested halfway down the bridge of his prominent nose. His high forehead furrowed when he looked away from the TV into the semi-dark room. When he stood, his tall lanky body retained the comma shape which seemed molded by the recliner. With a little grooming he could be a strikingly handsome man.

“Would you like a cup of coffee?” Oran asked from the adjoining room. I moved into the kitchen with Oran.

“Sure,” I replied, wondering how he would be able to produce any finished product from this environment. I saw the answer when I entered the room. Sitting by itself in a little nook was a small table with a “Mr. Coffee” machine perched on top. A fresh pot of coffee was brewing. Oran poured me a cup and I hesitated.

“Would you like anything in your coffee?”

“Why yes, I do like a little cream and sugar.”

This posed a minor problem. He was able to find some sugar, but when he asked his dad about the cream they decided it had mysteriously disappeared and they would have to put it on their grocery list. Meanwhile, he was able to find some powdered milk near the back of the refrigerator. He pointed to a box of Carnation powdered milk sitting on a cupboard and explained how they used that when they ran out of whole milk. I could well have done without the cream, but the Hobarts would not think of denying their guest the utmost in hospitality.

“I think I better call my office. Is it okay if I use your phone?” I asked.

“Sure, go ahead. When you get done I’ll call around and see who we can get to fix the truck.” I dialed the number and waited.

“Evangel Press/Christian Light Bookstore. Lois speaking.” Her clear voice contrasted with the rustic setting from which I was calling.

“I have a collect call from Ed Meyer. Will you accept the charge?”

After a slight hesitation... “I’ll go get Jon.”

Jon agreed to accept the charge. For a moment, I contemplated my dilemma if he had refused.

“Hello, Ed. What’s up?” He tried to sound calm and upbeat, but past experience warned him that I didn’t usually make social calls. I explained my situation and waited. After a long period of quiet deliberation I continued.

“I’m with a friend and he knows some people to call who may be able to help us.”

“Well go ahead and take care of it. See what you can do. If you have any more trouble call me.” We ended our conversation with feigned optimism.

“Jon said to just go ahead and take care of it,” I announced to Oran.

Oran squared his shoulders and accepted the challenge. After a few calls, it became apparent that we would not find anyone who could work on it for at least two weeks. Oran decided to call Al again at the Marathon station. I agreed because Al seemed the type who would take the time to help out.

“Hello Al, this is Oran again....Oran. You know, we were in this morning about the truck... the truck that was stranded along the highway .... You don’t want to look at it?....Two days?.... Could you just look at it and give us an idea....” Oran hung up the phone.

“Curse ‘im, I’ll fix it myself!” he announced with renewed confidence. “I’ll call the wrecker and have them bring it here. It’s probably just a loose wire.” My spirits cautiously buoyed by his show of optimism, but I was running out of options. Jon was depending on me. I was depending on Oran, and Oran was confident he could repair a loose wire.

“How simple,” I thought, “just a loose wire.”

Semasiology is a term which seemed out of place in the setting in which I found myself that day. It has to do with choices of words. As a case in point: a vehicle designed to extricate another stalled vehicle can be called either a “wrecker” or a “tow truck”. I resolved that in respect to the organization which the truck represented, and the long and dare I say hallowed history of the men involved with the Evangel Press, I would never again refer to a vehicle used to tow it as a “wrecker”, but rather as a “tow truck.”

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