c. 2025 Rod Ice
All rights reserved
(3-25)
With the 1981 Chevy Chevette banished to our side yard, I had returned to my original status upon coming home to Ohio, in late 1983. Namely, that of a pedestrian. I now had no form of personal transportation. Betty, my future wife, made sure that I could get to work despite this uncomfortable predicament. Yet it felt like a defeat on all fronts. My finances were depleted, having just finished making payments to Bank One on the car loan. Yet due to my youthful age and minimal credit history, I still did not have a secure foundation for buying another vehicle. Finding a solution did not seem to be an easy task. But my spouse-to-be was not disheartened. Her background as an office manager and networking professional proved to be more valuable than I had realized when we first met.
She tweaked her nose reflexively, while tapping away at a large calculator on the kitchen table. It made her look like an accountant taking stock of company resources. The look in her eyes indicated metaphorical wheels turning, while pondering my plight. So, I kept quiet and waited. Finally, she removed her oversized glasses, scribbled out a bottom-line tally, and handed me a homemade statement, written on notebook paper.
“Here’s your action plan, Rodney. Save what you can for the next year. Put aside the amount you were spending each month, on your little Chevrolet. Get yourself in a better position for tomorrow, don’t dive into more debt before you’re stable. We only live about five minutes from town. What do you really need for transportation? Nobody cares what you drive...”
My pulse had begun to rise.
“I CARE, DAMMIT! I CARE!”
She was short, plain but pretty, and in her 30s. Someone I truly needed as a life partner. Though my concept of an ideal mate had not yet matured completely.
“One of my brothers has connections at an auction site in Pennsylvania. It’s at a farm, just across the state line. Dealerships go there, and private individuals. He thinks you might discover a solution to your problem. Sometimes there are real bargains to be found...”
Her suggestion piqued my interest, because it sounded oddly familiar. Like something my younger brother would do, if fate had left him with no motorized mobility. He was well on his way to having owned a hundred automobiles, or more. I guessed at the very least, it was worth an impulsive roll the dice.
We arrived at this secretive, Keystone State locale in the evening. The seedy venue was already crowded. A line of prospective buys snaked through a large, rustic barn which served as the showroom. I watched a progression of classic cars, luxury vehicles, and weatherbeaten relics roll by the reviewing stand. Bids came quickly from the mob of contestants. But nothing I saw was affordable, in my own terms at least. A white, 1969 Pontiac Grand Prix went for $3500.00, an amount that sounded incredible, but out of reach. Other offerings were less glitzy, but still appealing. None of them fit my budget though, so I stayed silent.
Near the end of this frantic session, a 1972 Ford Econoline van appeared. It was a one-ton model, sprayed in a military shade of green. The auctioneer related that it had served a newspaper producer in the City of Erie. It was big, boxy, and carried a 302 V-8 motor. With a three-speed shift, on the steering column. There were no accessories included. It had been ordered as a workhorse.
Hands were raised from a beginning point of $50.00. Slowly, this amount swelled as a modicum of interest was manifested. Though real excitement over the ratty beast did not resonate. When a closing price of $200.00 was repeated several times over, suddenly, I felt a jerk in my arm. My voice sounded hoarse. I literally shouted from the back row.
“TWO-FIFTY! IT’S TWO-FIFTY FROM ME!”
There were glares of disbelief, coughing fits, and snorts of indignance, everywhere. I suspected that someone had intended to snag the old mule for parts. Though it ran strong, and maneuvered competently. There were no rust holes in its body, and it had passed an official inspection. Everything seemed to be in order.
The auction master declared that I had won, before any other activity occurred. It was a moment both thrilling and surreal. Because despite a lifetime of idolizing GM products, I now owned something that carried the blue oval as its mark of quality. This put me in sync with my combative sibling, something that was rare, indeed.
Betty gave me a blank stare. I could not tell if she was horrified, or pleased.
“You and Ronald are the Ford brothers, now!”
On the way back to Geauga County, I had only a bill-of-sale in the glovebox as my proof of ownership. The van quickly revealed that it had manual steering, which meant it boasted the road manners of a cement truck. I followed the route home without a working radio, or interior lights of any kind. A dim glow from the wide dashboard was my only companion. There were two seats in the front, and nothing else behind. I reckoned that their intention had been to use the brutish hauler like a pickup truck. It managed to reach a cruising velocity of around 70 mph, but did not feel capable of much more.
The Chevette had been relegated to holding bags of dog food for our homebound kennel. So, it was still sitting in the grass, when I arrived at our address. The van headlights swept across its profile, as I pulled up, into the driveway which spanned a gap between two stout trees and their combined root systems.
My brother actually had a Super Van version of the Econoline, one adorned with chrome accents and features for passenger use. This meant that despite butting heads for so long, we now had a genuine kinship in the making. At my suggestion, Betty took a photograph of the pair, nose to nose, on our gravel road. Her approval echoed while tripping the shutter.
“They look like twins! How nice is that? Two peas in a pod...”
Ron laughed at this cheerful characterization.
“Nah, they are both Fords! I figure instead of rubbing snouts, they’d be fighting!”
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