Christmas Come Early

by Stumblin' Jimmy Watermelon

here was an old station wagon that I drove for years. Bought it from a doctor who had ordered it right from the factory some ten or so years before. It had a few odd little quirks like its original owner, but for the most part it ran, losing minor bits and pieces here and there along the road. If this automobile had been a person I’d have said it had ‘mood swings’. Every time you got in to drive somewhere it was an adventure – cause you never could be sure when, if or how you were going to reach your destination. I named it ‘The Grand Pariah’ an’ coddled an’ cursed it through about the most interesting an’ aggravating 30,000 miles I have ever driven. Finally, one chilly morning in late November it ‘gave up the ghost” with a clang from the engine followed by a muffled bang and white smoke drifting thick from the tailpipe. You know I even had to PAY the junk man to haul it off.

December rolled around, I still hadn’t found a vehicle I was willin’ to pay for and Ghee (that’s how I jokingly call my wife) was about done with me using her shiny new SUV. It was my greatest fear that I would be the one drivin’ when her pride on wheels was delivered its first scratch.

Folks, for weeks I searched everything from papers to parkin’ lots, to used car yards. I’ll tell you, if pickin’s weren’t slim they were pricey. I have a down right allergy to loan book coupons. It was gonna be cash or nothin’ an so far I had a lot o’ nothin’. Finally over lunch with K-Bar Louis one day, me commiseratin’ over my dilemma, he asked me, “Have you ever perused the newspaper’s classic auto section”? In truth I hadn’t since it was my imaginin’ that that word ‘classic’ added even more cost to the total. I’ll tell you folks though, there was an inklin’ of magic in the moment of his question. It stirred me to pick up the paper, divide those pages an’ just have a look.

There were no sounds of reindeer nor sprinkles of fairy dust, but low an’ behold there it was. ‘For sale: 1969 Ford pickup truck, in good running condition; $1200.00. Call Edgar after 6 p.m.’ Well, I called Edgar until his answerin’ machine would no longer record my inquiries but, not to be denied, I called on. At about the 13th ring of the 38th call Edgar woke up an’ answered. The truck was there an’ the hunt was on . . .

Way out from the village proper, way, way out, setting in a field of straw was a sight that brought my memories back to childhood days on Daddy’s little farm. There in gold and tan grass sat the old Ford F-100, rusted enough to tell it’s age, but holdin’ together quite well. Through faded paint it was still red as a Santa’s suit. The engine sounded strong, the brakes worked, an’ the shifter shifted. There weren’t probably 20 wires on the whole truck an’ eight of them went to the spark plugs! A stop in the toy department at the ‘five an’ dime” would add a glimmer of truth for my fib to Ghee, “Oh yeah honey, it’s great. Has all the bells an’ whistles.” I bought it on the spot, happy as a pig rollin’ in bliss. With old farm gears, as slow as it ran, I nearly went off the road several times drifting from reality to old days gone by.

By the time I reached home, that ol’ pickup an’ I were one. Ghee met me in the driveway. Opening the driver’s door I could see her looking in, trying to ignore the chunk missing from the corner of the seat. Glancing across the cab’s modest interior she exclaimed, “There’s nothin’ there!” “Sure there is honey.” I replied. “It’s full of all the good time I knew as a child.” That was Ghee’s soft spot. She said no more and just gave me a hug.

I’ve named that truck Ol’ Melon. Like the fruit, though long ripe an’ with a few soft spots, it’s still sweet. Yep, Christmas come early this year, it’s gonna be a good one. I can just tell . . .