Terry prepares to haul off the 1959 Rambler, the last car Raven worked on before transitioning to appliance design and corporate management. Photo Socotra.
I didn’t feel like a complete Turkey yesterday. I did manage to accomplish something. The 1959 Rambler is off the property. Terry and his Jerr-Dan tow truck showed up in the driveway just a few minutes after nine- close enough for government work.
He wore a neon knot cap over sandy hair and had warm blue eyes behind a network of wrinkles that spoke to a life spent outdoors, squinting against the Michigan sun.
“Black ice on the roads down by Grayling and Charlevoix,” he said with a tow-truck driver’s interest in the elements. “Dozen cars off the road, according to my scanner.”
“I have a feeling there might be some work for you later,” I said. “Glad I am not trying to make a plane out of Detroit Metro,” I responded, shaking a hand that emerged warm from his work glove.
I handed over the green title, properly signed, and the bundle of trunk and ignition keys.
I had been up since four, wondering if I could find the keys and get the boxes stacked on top of it somewhere else in the packed garage. “I will have the car at my place on the lot, and the Purple Heart people will pick it up on Monday,” he said.
“Fine with me,” I said. “I just want it off the property and off the books.”
Terry scratched the stubble n his chin. “Then it will go to auction at some point and they will notify you as to the write-off amount for the taxes.”
“Won’t be worth much,” I said. “Too bad. My Dad worked on the design team for that car, more than 53 years ago.”
“It is in good shape,” he said, running his hand under the wheel-well, feeling the strong un-rusted sheet metal. The fins were bold and vertical and the little plate that read “Super” was elegant on the black flank under the defiant crimson stripe down the side. The hood was adorned with little chrome fins that looked vaguely like two Mako sharks swimming along parallel lines of attack.
“I hope somebody wants it and has the time to give it a little TLC and finish the restoration.” Terry shrugged. It was not going to be either of our problems. He handed me a transit receipt for the sedan, and then concentrated on getting the big flat surface of the truck bed canted up and wedged against the rear wheels of the Rambler.
He ran the winch to drag the car out of the garage, and it gave a few inches and then the thick wire began to sing with tension. Terry shut it down and plunged under the car and flashed a light on the front tires, which were flat as pancakes.
“Ah, front left is locked,” he said, and popped up in front of the car and squirmed past the boxes to jump in the driver’s seat. “Push button trannie!” I heard him exclaim from inside the passenger compartment. “My Dad spent 27 years at Dodge Main building things like this. You have to push the Neutral button and release the parking brake at the same time.”
He got out of the car and rummaged around in the tool compartment on the Jerr-Dan looking for an additional chain and a come-along strap. “My daughter had the truck last. When will they learn to put stuff away properly?”
I realized this was a family affair, Terry and his truck and kids. “At exactly the time that it pisses them off that someone else didn’t do their job.”
Terry laughed as he slung the chain under the car, secured it and returned to the control lever. This time the back tires rolled slowly over the ramp, which acted as a gigantic steel spatula to bring the black car slowly and majestically out of the packed garage.
“It should be good enough as it is,” he said, pulling a lever to drop the bed down flat. But I am going to put the travel straps on it even though I am just going across town.”
“Better than having it drop off on Mitchell Street,” I said.
Terry laughed and flicked the handle of the come-along until the springs on the suspension of the Rambler began to compress.
“You have the receipt, I have the title and keys. We are good to go,” he said, sticking out his hand. We shook and then he hopped up into the cab of the truck. He edge it away from the garage, and then began to move slowly down the driveway to turn onto West Jefferson.
I blinked, not knowing quite what to think. Another part of Raven going away, even though I was going to climb into my Grand Cherokee rental and go see him.
There was something about the way that Rambler looked, sitting up tall and proud, that was pretty impressive. And I realized I had to get it in gear if I was going to be able to watch Raven doze for a while before joining Big Mama for lunch.
Copyright 2011 Vic Socotra
www.vicocotra.com