Fixer upper

I’ve been meeting weekly for a while now with my online Confessional Community. This is a group of people I consider very safe, and with whom I have been able to tell my story at a deep and vulnerable level. Over the last several months, they have been a huge blessing to me! This week I relayed to them, with far less rabbit chasing, my Cat’s Cradle story. What they reflected back to me helped me see my story more truly. One of them said “your dad missed out on the something special just the two of you could’ve had”. This hit me pretty hard.

It’s true. There really hasn’t been that “something special” between us, ever. We got off to a really rocky start, and it’s never been smooth since. And sure, I now live with him, but still, everything we do is on his terms and based on his abilities, which are now very minimal.

There was one attempt, years ago, in creating that something special. It has become a sort-of icon, heralding the attempt and highlighting the reality. It’s an old truck. In fact, a 1961 Chevrolet C10 Apache with a “straight six” motor and 3-speed manual transmission. It’s an old farm truck, really, with just two doors, a stepside bed, and the spare tire mounted behind the driver’s door.

This truck was gonna be our thing. And not just ours, but my son’s too. The idea was that it could be a 3-generation project truck we all would work on, together. More than 15 years ago, my dad, son, and I drove several hours together to look at the truck, and then my dad purchased it on the spot. I drove it onto the trailer. We hauled it back to his home, and I drove it into his barn, where it has been sitting ever since. Dad, who is always the guy who reads the entire owner’s manual before attempting anything – whether it’s a vehicle, toaster or a can opener, said he needed to do some research first before launching into working on the truck.

I guess he’s still doing research.

The truck won’t start now. The battery is certainly dead, but the motor won’t turn over, even with battery power. And, a leak has developed in the fuel tank – which is basically right behind the seat. So, it’s not safe to drive anyway. It’s parked, with tires rotting, in the same barn where we keep mowing equipment and other stuff. I see it every time I get out the mower. It just sits there, looking forlorn. It makes me sad.

Maybe someday my son and I will have the chance to work on it together…maybe we’ll just scrap it after dad dies. We have our own something special. It’s called relationship.