c. 2025 Rod Ice
All rights reserved
(3-25)
My relocation to a rural environment, outside of Chardon, was something that at first appeared to be an escape from stress. I knew that Betty had already mastered the art of living on a gravel road, using a woodburning stove for heating, and other chores associated with being in a quiet, isolated setting. It made me think that I would be able to relax and work on writing projects, as I had when staying with friends outside of Ithaca, in New York. But I soon discovered that this readjustment would require more effort than expected. And, that my Chevrolet hatchback was wholly unsuited for the workhorse routine it had inherited.
When a need to carry cargo would arise, I laid the rear seats in a flat position, to create an extended load floor. Much like the bed in a small pickup truck. This functioned well enough, but heightened the struggle of a 1.6-liter engine to pull my vehicle up to road speeds. The Chevette balked and sputtered and shook, while squatting on its tires, sized 13 inches. When running over the loose stones, I found myself needing to steer with the ponderous aim of a motor boat, instead of pointing a regular transport in one, specific direction. Weeks and months of this abuse began to affect the car visibly. It manifested dents and scratches everywhere.
My new partner was somewhat amused when I complained about this decline. She had a Ford sedan from 1977, which seemed to take the punishment in stride.
“You’re too much of a worrier, Rodney! I’ve lived at this spot with my young son for a few years. We do well here, it’s a better life than being cramped in an apartment, downtown!”
Her parents lived up the hillside, in the only other home on our road. I found my future father-in-law to be a smart, resourceful fellow, with a sense of humor. He was a Navy veteran from World War II, something that highlighted his advanced age. A short, stocky individual who always wore shop attire, and liked to tinker. Though long past retirement, he had continued to do mechanical work for the property owner. The benefit was out tenancy on their undeveloped land.
We bonded immediately, in particular because I had known him and his wife as customers when working for Fisher’s Big Wheel.
On one occasion around the holidays, I was muttering about my GM mule looking tattered by comparison to his daughter’s mobile. Something that happened while we visited to share tidings of holiday cheer. But when I referred to the auto by name, one which normally signified a wild, unbranded horse, there was a twinkle visible in his eyes.
“Betty’s rig is a Maverick, you say? Now that brings up a point for discussion. Are you sure about that, kiddo? Think hard before you answer!”
My family had owned lots of Ford Motor products over the years, with names such as Falcon, Galaxie, LTD, Maverick, and Capri. Which was part of the reason that I generally preferred Chevrolet vehicles, instead. I enjoyed being a contrarian in our household. Yet my knowledge of product lines in the automotive industry seemed certain. So, I boasted a bit about my heritage.
“Pop Gee, I could tell the difference between a Model T and a Model A when I was in first grade! I might not be an expert on much, but there’s gasoline in my blood!”
The patient oldster grinned widely, and slapped both arms of his recliner. I should have realized that a prank of sorts was about to transpire.
“Go ahead, have a look in the driveway. Can you find where it has a name tagged, anywhere? On the quarter panel, or hood, or trunk lid, maybe? Take a good gander at her ride!”
I was still an inexperienced, twenty-something yokel at the time. So, his challenge had me shaking my head with incredulity. My beast and hers were both parked outside, as we had each arrived directly from our stores. I stomped through the snow to perform a visual inspection, and found... nothing. No nameplates of any kind, anywhere. No insignia that depicted an equestrian animal. Nothing but the official, four-letter brand, issued from Detroit.
Pop Gee leaned out the back door, while snorting and laughing. He gestured for effect, with his gloved, right hand.
“Look under the dashboard, friend! There’s a copy of the registration in there. Read it! Read what it says!”
I found the paperwork beneath a stack of McDonald’s napkins, and a pair of sunglasses. My voice cracked a bit from the cold, but also embarrassment, when speaking aloud.
“Ford, 1977. That’s it. Betty’s beater is... just a Ford!”
Her father had to wipe tears from his eyes. His gruff guffaw echoed across the yard as I hung my head and returned to their living room.
“There you go, kid! What did I tell you? That thing is a real maverick, a Ford, plain and simple! The State of Ohio got it right! Maybe next time, you’ll listen to me instead of arguing!”
Her sedate sedan was truly the last of its breed. I reckoned that supplies of trim pieces must have run out, as production was about to end. The Granada line had already been in existence for two years. Therefore, they simply sold the vehicle as a stripped model. Literally, as the group America sang, ‘a horse with no name.’ A period-perfect composition by Dewey Bunnell that began to play in my head, as we made our exit for the evening.
My girlfriend’s steed fired up with no hesitation, despite the cold. But the Chevette played dead. This reddened my cheeks and caused a moment of indecision. After checking under the hood, I realized that its battery was still fully charged, but a defect had somehow caused the starter to expire. Being at the halfway point of a long hill, with our own homestead at the bottom, gave me a burst of inspiration, however. I aimed the wounded machine toward our intended destination, then pushed hard with the driver’s door open.
“COME ON, SHOVE-IT! LET’S GO! GO, GO, GO!”
A couple of attempts to start the T-car while rolling failed. Yet it ended up in a convenient place, just past trees in the front yard. I left it sitting for the night, as we went inside to stoke up our cast-iron appliance with split logs from the woodpile, and have a drink.
Betty sipped ginger ale. She did not like the taste of beverage alcohol. But I opened a brew from the refrigerator. I had nothing left to say. Though my future wife was full of yuletide goodwill.
“Merry Christmas, honey! This is our first one, together! Our very first!”
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