Between Friends
--
January 2007
I knew I was going to have a good time doing this. It wasn't my car, but the owner was nearby and he nodded to me. So, I hunkered down into the driver's seat of the customized '67 Ford Mustang, held onto the steering wheel and started the ignition. Then, all hell broke loose.
The huge engine roared to life and every guy who was standing nearby turned to look at the latest big dog barking from the porch.
The car fanatics, the ones who moments before were pointing to the engine and chattering in esoteric stats and specs, backed-off, then just as instinctively came closer as the car bucked from the engine's torque. They couldn't stop themselves. The sound was visceral, primal and true. It resonated with them as only a well-tuned, huge block V-8 engine could. This is why they came to the car auction today.
The other bull elephants wandering the packed parking lot heard the engine's low rumble and answered the call. Soon, a small herd of the faithful gathered around the car to trumpet their proud, cacophonous approval of heavy Dee-troit steel.
I smiled at my fellow brothers and turned off the engine. The ploy had worked. I nodded to the owner and he nodded his appreciation in return. Now everyone was looking at the car and that's what he wanted.
In a few minutes, I'd be driving this beautiful beast onto the carpeted auction area, but, for now, it was mine. With a big smile and the nonchalance of someone about to wet their pants from excitement, I pointed out the special features and custom tweaks on a car I had dreamed of driving since I was a teenager. That was forty years ago.
I looked over at the fellow who made my field day possible - Big T. He's a buddy of mine who every year volunteers his GTO car club members as presentation drivers to one of the larger classic auto auctions held every January in Phoenix, Arizona. This year he needed more drivers and I said yes.
Big T always smiles, but he's been smiling more this past month. The reason is simple. It's about life. The docs gave him the good news in late December. They had caught it in time and his treatments were a success. With a few more years of remission, he could count on enjoying his young grandsons for many more years.
I'm one of the few people who know about Big T's fight for life. When he initially confided in me, he was scared about dying, but almost equally apprehensive about sharing a secret (and a vulnerability) with someone from work, even a friend.
In the quid pro quo of friendship, I told him about my brush with death a few years back - that I had been there and done that. He was surprised (and saddened) that I had never mentioned it to him. It wasn't a slight on my part, I just needed to slip out quietly. (My doc had only given me two more years to live, but I fought and won a new life.) The only people who knew were my family: my daughter, K, my parents and my brother and sister.
I promised Big T that I would help him. Over the next year and half, I listened as he shared those parts of his life that we, as men, never share, except for those who are joined in war or damned to death. He tried to hide his angst, but I recognized the signs of a man swimming in the waters of his own mortality.
He was scared, but didn't want to talk about it, so we joked a lot. It was something to keep the boogey man away in the middle of the day. We'd go out for lunch and talk about everything - except what worried him. On the way back to work, I would turn into my mom and ask him how he was doing - how he was really doing. It's the same voice and face that K sees when I change from gentle father to gentler mother. The one that says everything is going be all right.
Big T addressed his life's list of woulda, coulda, shouldas. He repaired relationships that needing mending and started new ones. He attended high school and college reunions and remembered how he once was and still is. He took up the saxophone, something he had enjoyed as a boy and young adult. Then, he did one of those things we always promise ourselves and attended a two-week jazz camp last summer. He fondly remembers those days of music and good times.
In the end, he learned that life is lived one day at a time. It was a hard lesson to learn, but one that he has taken to heart. Because of it, he's become a better father, granddad, father-in-law and friend.
What he learned in life, he brought to work. In the engineering world of middle management, his unvarnished truth and openness was recognized and appreciated. This past December, much to his surprise, he received a promotion and now has an office in the building where the big dogs bark. (Congratulations, Big T.)
It was time for me to move along. The auction coordinator had signaled to me that I was next on deck. I told the car fanatics to move back, then jumped in the car and started it up.
Looking in the rear view mirror, I saw Big T standing twenty feet away, clipboard in hand, surrounded by attentive presentation drivers, all trying to get the next cherry road rocket to ride.
That's where I was twenty minutes ago when Big T tapped me on the shoulder and pointed to his car sheet. Running his finger down the list, he stopped on a car highlighted in yellow. With a knowing smile, he asked, "Would ya like to drive a '67 Mustang?"
It was his way of saying thank you - between friends.
--
January 2007
I knew I was going to have a good time doing this. It wasn't my car, but the owner was nearby and he nodded to me. So, I hunkered down into the driver's seat of the customized '67 Ford Mustang, held onto the steering wheel and started the ignition. Then, all hell broke loose.
The huge engine roared to life and every guy who was standing nearby turned to look at the latest big dog barking from the porch.
The car fanatics, the ones who moments before were pointing to the engine and chattering in esoteric stats and specs, backed-off, then just as instinctively came closer as the car bucked from the engine's torque. They couldn't stop themselves. The sound was visceral, primal and true. It resonated with them as only a well-tuned, huge block V-8 engine could. This is why they came to the car auction today.
The other bull elephants wandering the packed parking lot heard the engine's low rumble and answered the call. Soon, a small herd of the faithful gathered around the car to trumpet their proud, cacophonous approval of heavy Dee-troit steel.
I smiled at my fellow brothers and turned off the engine. The ploy had worked. I nodded to the owner and he nodded his appreciation in return. Now everyone was looking at the car and that's what he wanted.
In a few minutes, I'd be driving this beautiful beast onto the carpeted auction area, but, for now, it was mine. With a big smile and the nonchalance of someone about to wet their pants from excitement, I pointed out the special features and custom tweaks on a car I had dreamed of driving since I was a teenager. That was forty years ago.
I looked over at the fellow who made my field day possible - Big T. He's a buddy of mine who every year volunteers his GTO car club members as presentation drivers to one of the larger classic auto auctions held every January in Phoenix, Arizona. This year he needed more drivers and I said yes.
Big T always smiles, but he's been smiling more this past month. The reason is simple. It's about life. The docs gave him the good news in late December. They had caught it in time and his treatments were a success. With a few more years of remission, he could count on enjoying his young grandsons for many more years.
I'm one of the few people who know about Big T's fight for life. When he initially confided in me, he was scared about dying, but almost equally apprehensive about sharing a secret (and a vulnerability) with someone from work, even a friend.
In the quid pro quo of friendship, I told him about my brush with death a few years back - that I had been there and done that. He was surprised (and saddened) that I had never mentioned it to him. It wasn't a slight on my part, I just needed to slip out quietly. (My doc had only given me two more years to live, but I fought and won a new life.) The only people who knew were my family: my daughter, K, my parents and my brother and sister.
I promised Big T that I would help him. Over the next year and half, I listened as he shared those parts of his life that we, as men, never share, except for those who are joined in war or damned to death. He tried to hide his angst, but I recognized the signs of a man swimming in the waters of his own mortality.
He was scared, but didn't want to talk about it, so we joked a lot. It was something to keep the boogey man away in the middle of the day. We'd go out for lunch and talk about everything - except what worried him. On the way back to work, I would turn into my mom and ask him how he was doing - how he was really doing. It's the same voice and face that K sees when I change from gentle father to gentler mother. The one that says everything is going be all right.
Big T addressed his life's list of woulda, coulda, shouldas. He repaired relationships that needing mending and started new ones. He attended high school and college reunions and remembered how he once was and still is. He took up the saxophone, something he had enjoyed as a boy and young adult. Then, he did one of those things we always promise ourselves and attended a two-week jazz camp last summer. He fondly remembers those days of music and good times.
In the end, he learned that life is lived one day at a time. It was a hard lesson to learn, but one that he has taken to heart. Because of it, he's become a better father, granddad, father-in-law and friend.
What he learned in life, he brought to work. In the engineering world of middle management, his unvarnished truth and openness was recognized and appreciated. This past December, much to his surprise, he received a promotion and now has an office in the building where the big dogs bark. (Congratulations, Big T.)
It was time for me to move along. The auction coordinator had signaled to me that I was next on deck. I told the car fanatics to move back, then jumped in the car and started it up.
Looking in the rear view mirror, I saw Big T standing twenty feet away, clipboard in hand, surrounded by attentive presentation drivers, all trying to get the next cherry road rocket to ride.
That's where I was twenty minutes ago when Big T tapped me on the shoulder and pointed to his car sheet. Running his finger down the list, he stopped on a car highlighted in yellow. With a knowing smile, he asked, "Would ya like to drive a '67 Mustang?"
It was his way of saying thank you - between friends.
--
posted by Mike Chandler | 4:33 AM
1 Comments:
Hi Mike,
My name is Kevin. A few years ago after reading "To Risk" on your weblog I started my own weblog. You are invited to come take a look. I am around half your age, but unconsciously have always been in search of wisdom and fine-tuned people. You can take that as a compliment.
My url listens to: kevandhis.blogspot.com
I took the freedom of mentioning you in the first section. I hope you don't mind and otherwise can forgive me, and I'll allways be ready to withdraw your blogadress from mine.
Cheers,
Kevin
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