Uncle Harold Fixes Mom's Car

I recently enjoyed a "working" visit to see my uncle Harold in South Carolina. I say working because I drove the 400 miles between Washington and Greer mainly to get Harold's help in fixing the broken electric seat in my Mom's old 2002 Buick Century that my 24-year-old daughter now drives.

How this all turned out is somewhat of shaggy dog story since the seat wasn't really broken. However, in my defense this fact could not have been discovered had Harold and I not bought a junk yard seat for $50 and taken it apart to examine the electric motor actuators that we thought were responsible for the seat not moving up and down or backwards or forwards. Actually, Harold did this deconstruction work before I arrived. But I found and bought the seat online and Harold picked it up

And yes, having a car seat that is stuck in the perfect position for someone six feet tall is not a problem if you are in fact, six feet tall. Unfortunately, Olivia (the car's only driver) is not anywhere near six feet tall and so she would have needed to sit on an apple crate to drive the car.

In any case, the eventual punch line for this shaggy dog story is contained in the following exchange Harold and I had as he looked under seat with a flashlight on a rainy Friday morning as we began what we assumed would be an all-day the project involving the following steps:

1 - remove the seat

2- remove the broken actuator assembly

3- put in new actuator assembly

4- reattach the seat

5- pray it works when we're done

My job was to sit in the comfortable, grandmotherly car seat and press the appropriate electric switch when asked. Harold's job was to sit on a damp concrete floor and do the actual work. Great division of labor I thought.

 "What is this little rod here," Harold said after about 10 minute of expert examination of the situation? He was holding up a black rod about the size and length of a number 2 pencil.

"Don't know," I said, "Looks like an old pencil to me..."

"It's not a pencil," Harold said, examining his mysterious under seat find, "but it looks a lot like the little rod I found on the floor after I took our junk yard seat apart..In fact, I kept it and it's somewhere on my workshop table in the basement." 

Harold handed the rod to me and continued his tinkering and prodding for a while longer, occasionally asking me to move the seat one way or another. I made use of my time by examining the little rod he'd handed me. I smartly concluded that "it must go to something." That's what a college degree will do for you..it really hones those critical thinking skills. 

Then Harold looked up with a puckish expression, maybe a near smile even ...

"Let me see that little rod again" he asked, “I want to try something"

I felt more prodding and pulling under the seat, but I could tell Harold was on to something. After about five minutes of this activity Harold looked up again. He had the confident face of a man who is absolutely certain he's solved a complex, intractable problem and now all he needs to make the victory complete is to find someone, anyone, to share the moment with...

"Now try it," Harold said.

I followed his instructions.

Suddenly, the seat obeyed its seat control commands, bucking backwards and forwards and up and down like it had just rolled off the Detroit assembly line, Harold let out a mild, Baptist-allowed expression of victory and joy. Our task was done. Time for lunch!

And like all good stories of triumph, we ended up with a couple of bonus spoils from our efforts.

Me - I was now the proud owner of a 2002 Buick Century electric seat actuator assembly - valued if bought new, at least according to Buick dealership in Washington, at around $1000. 

Of course, I am keeping the part around until Olivia gets rid of Mom's car. I just want to avoid the anger and frustration I'll feel when the seat really does stop working which, as we all know, will be after I sell the part on eBay. In fact, just to confirm the main tenant of Murphy's Law, if I sell the the seat assembly, Olivia will surely come running in the house only minutes after I mail the package to let me know that the seat is "really broken this time."

Harold - He acquired a new, but likely an extremely low demand competency - fixing electric seats in old Buick Century's. And of course, he got a new story to tell and of course embellish upon. I can't imagine either one of us will regret throwing away the nasty, stained with God knows what car seat - sans actuator assembly, bien sûr!

 Personally, I was thinking that the old car seat might find new life as a comfortable deer hunting perch down at the hunt club-lashed securely to a good-sized tree and offered for use with the admonition that the seat belt and shoulder restraint must be worn at all times to avoid injury.

Harold was not too keen on the idea. But then, I can't say that I blame him. That seat did look positively infectious when we lifted it out of his truck bed at the garbage collection center and threw it in the trash bin that was bound for the city landfill. In fact, now that I think of it, it would not have been a bad idea to have steam cleaned the truck bed or at least to have washed it out with Clorox and water!

Harold Lecturing at Fix Anything University (FAU) on Electric Seat Repair ...I hear it's a great course if you can get in...

"You see the little black rod above the golden one here in this picture...now that's the key to the fix," Buick seat specialist, Harold Powers, told his students......"you can be sure, this will be on the test!"

Going to the Lake

When my oldest daughter picked Syracuse University as her college of choice, we were all a bit puzzled. Yes, her mother's best friend had lived there for years and we had visited Susan on a few occasions, but for the most part she had never heard us (or anyone else for that matter) say, "Wow, Syracuse. Now that's a place I want to live - especially in the winter."

Syracuse does have a legendary reputation for awful weather, but occasionally even Syracuse gets a break. The sky clears, the weather turns warm, and residents skip therapy that week. And, according to our friends who actually live there, they go sailing on the lake.

The phrase "going sailing on the lake" has a different meaning to the residents of Syracuse and upstate New York than it did to me growing up in rural South Carolina. To upstate New York residents,. "Lake" means, Lake Ontario, Huron, Erie, or maybe Superior - more appropriately named oceans in point of fact. These vast, white-capped expanses of water offer sandy beaches and limitless horizons. They also accommodate oil tankers and cargo ships larger than the town I grew up in.

In South Carolina, the term "lake" more accurately meant an engineered body of water constructed to serve as a watershed, or to drive turbines for power, or maybe even to run a cotton mill (called a Mill Pond in the local vernacular). This frame of reference is completely inadequate to understand anything as vast as Lake Ontario where, it turns out, my friends invited us all to go sailing during a recent visit to see my daughter.

The picture pasted here of Olivia (far left), me (center), and Camille (right, my 16-year-old daughter) was taken during my first sailing cruise on Lake Ontario. It was likely taken before we had left the relative calm of the harbor and before our 32-foot boat began bouncing around like a cork and someone (other than me) finally admitted to feeling a "bit queasy."

The sailing trip was really wonderful and we appreciated the time and energy it took to arrange the day, but it was more lake than I expected. I kept thinking of my own Southern context and what "going to the lake" meant to anyone growing up in Greer, South Carolina. It made me think of a summer when Billy Johnson took me and a few other friends "to the lake."

Going to the Lake with Billy Johnson


It was the summer of my junior year in high school when Billy Johnson pulled his 1969 red Pontiac GTO convertible into the First Baptist Church parking lot in downtown Greer and shoved the gleaming chrome gear shifter into neutral without setting the parking break.

Before the car stopped moving, I watched with admiration and a bit of jealously from the back seat as Billy slid out from under the steering wheel and stood up while steadying himself with one hand on the top of the front windshield frame and the other on his custom rolled leather seat back. Then with the grace, agility and confidence of a well-trained gymnast he vaulted his muscular frame over his girlfriend's outstretched legs and over the passenger door.

The second his feet hit the hot blacktop pavement of the parking lot, Billy began selling a brilliant notion to us all - Jennie Faye Smith (Billy's girlfriend) in the front seat and Barry Johnson (no relation) and his girlfriend Mary Lee Bruce, and me, all sitting in the back seat.

"Hey, I got it," Billy yelled, competing with the deep-throated rumble of an 8-cylinder, fuel-injected engine tricked out with stock exhaust manifolds," Let's run up to the lake house and go skiing." Billy Ray didn't wait for an answer although I yelled "hell, yes" just to affirm the group's certain decision.

I immediately felt bad about using profanity in the church parking lot. After all, it was a known article of faith that the use of profanity carried with it the possibility of serious retribution if not outright and immediate punishment - like a car crash or horrible disease.

Billy Ray didn't waste any time getting out of the church parking lot. He opened Jennie Faye's door, hesitating only a moment to admire her legs and hiked up short skirt. Then he stepped across his girlfriend's seat, the gearbox console, and using the top of the steering wheel and shifter handle for support, he dropped into the driver's seat like a NASCAR professional. I felt another tinge of jealousy.

At the time it was convenient to connect my envy to Billy's athletic prowess and his sheer "coolness," but in retrospect I suspect the unobstructed view of Jenny Faye's legs barely covered by an impossibly short skirt was the real culprit.

As we rolled toward the parking lot exit, Billy Ray looked back over his shoulder and fixed his gaze directly at me. "Hey, Morrow," he yelled, adhering to his trademark habit of never calling anyone by their first name, "watch this!" With that, he turned his head, slammed the shifter into first gear, and engaged the awesome power resident in a fuel-injected 400-cubic inch engine.

The car jerked forward with such force that it undoubtedly left the ground. A high-pitch wail began reverberating off the brick walls of the church, filling the air with frightful sound. As we spun and fishtailed around the parking lot, smoking tires spitting out bits of rubber and gravel, the awful screaming and screeching grew louder in direct proportion to the engine's increasing RPM. I was sure the car would either flip over or catch on fire, or the over-torqued motor might simply blow up and flying piston rods and and assorted engine parts kill us all.

"Jesus Christ, Billy Ray," I screamed (immediately regretting it) when he finally eased his foot off the accelerator. "What are you doing? You want to get us killed or arrested?"

Billy, of course, could not hear me over his own uncontrollable laughter. When he got control of himself he answered with tears running down his face.

"What's the matter, Morrow... Scare you?"
"Yes, as a matter of fact, you scared me shitless. Thank you very much."
"Mark's right," Jennie Faye joined in. "You are a Jerk Billy Ray Johnson!"
"That's true," Billy said, pulling the GTO slowly out onto Main Street. "But I know you love it."
"You think so," Jimmy Faye said in a huff.

Of course we knew Jennie Faye did in fact love it. That's exactly why she put up with Billy Ray - and likely why we all tolerated him as well. He was a show off and surely dangerous. It was also true that, after a while, he wore thin on most people. But Billy guaranteed entertainment and provided diversion from what I considered the predictable, often smothering day-to-day life offered by a conservative small town in the deep South.

A few days later I noticed a city crew trying to remove the 20-foot long, thick black sacrilege Billy had left in the church parking lot. I was sure that Billy's father who owned the largest peach farm in the county had arranged the clean up. As one of the richest kids in town, it was somewhat of a birthright that anything short of murder his father would "make right." I figured this was just the latest example.

We did get to the lake that day and except for Billy's unholy penchant for dragging his skiers excessively close to the shore and other known underwater hazards such as old submerged trees and stumps, we had a great time.

Barry and Mary Lee seemed to have only a passing interest in skiing that afternoon. I was happy to have more time to ski and attributed their lack of interest to the understandable fear of being in a motorboat with Billy, much less skiing behind a boat with him at the helm. It only occurred to me a few years later why Barry and Mary Lee wanted to stay behind in an empty, parentless house while Billy, Jimmie Faye, and I had fun out on the lake. When I did finally "get it," I was a bit embarrassed about my naivette. But in retrospect I was relieved to be spared the burden of that knowledge .

A few months later, Billy crashed his beautiful car into a tree out near the public golf course. He wasn't hurt, but the impact bent the frame and Billy Ray had to watch his awesome red GTO being towed off to the junk yard. Surprisingly, Billy's father did not replace the car as we all expected. Instead, he put Billy to work on the peach farm and made him buy his own car without parental help.

The next summer when we went "up to the lake" Billy drove us in a 1962 Chevrolet Impala. It wasn't even a convertible. Jennie Faye still occupied the front seat and Barry, Mary Lee, and me sat in the back seat. I was grateful that Billy had "settled down" from the previous summer - most of us said that he would likely be dead by our senior year had he not faced some "come to Jesus" moment.

For my part, I was just grateful that "cutting doughnuts" in the First Baptist Church parking lot was no longer an option. Nothing terrible had happened since the previous summer's unfortunate incident. I had clearly taken the lord's name in vain not 50 yards from the church entrance and considered that blind, dumb luck had saved me. I was pretty certain that God had just been preoccupied with some other sinner or blasphemer and had simply missed it. Whatever the reason,  I was just grateful for the oversight and thought to myself at the time that sometimes it's best to just let sleeping dogs lie.

A Lesson in Patience

Despite deeply rooted cultural and family traditions, I never developed the Zen-like patience required for hunting and fishing. I just got bored. It's a shame really, that mind-spinning restlessness I felt after less than an hour waiting for a deer to present itself for slaughter or a fish to notice my shinny, yellow Shasta lure as it spun and jerked its way through the murky, cool lake water of Lake Greenwood.

Uncle Bill had no such restlessness perched on a deer stand 20 feet up a pine tree, silently surveying the familiar landscape, thinking only of the deer that might or might not show up. "It's not just about getting a deer," Uncle Bill often said about his love of the sport, "I just like being in the woods. It gives me time to think about things."

Uncle Bill's wisdom is undeniable without the obfuscation brought on by adolescent arrogance, resentment, and fear. Hunting and fishing (which requires essentially the same single-minded temperament and willingness to "be") are legitimate portals to finding contentment and purpose in life. Uncle Bill's ability to access his own peaceful realm through such simple activity is certainly worthy of envy.

Writing does bring focus, clarity, purpose, meaning, and occasionally contentment, but I suspect that a direct comparison between the psychic benefits of hunting (or fishing) and the difficult task of writing would reveal writing as the hands down loser. Want to be happy? Go hunting or fishing.

A Second Chance at a Freelance Life

The last time I launched a "freelance career" was nearly 25 years ago. By most measures of success, it didn't go that well.

It is true that when I got a writing or a photography assignment, I met interesting people who apparently appreciated my accommodating southern manners. I always returned with a good story or revealing photograph. In fact, Walker Percy, a southern writer of some reputation, once called me a "painless" photographer. The description fits, but I have often wondered if Walker really meant it as a complement. After all, Southern "niceness" and gentility are often nothing more than a soothing, numbing shield from responsibility or worse an excuse for cowardice.

In any case, I was living south of San Francisco in a small walk-up one bedroom apartment right on El Camino Real in the moderate to well-healed town of Burlingame. In fact, for a first try at the California rental market, the apartment was, in the lexicon of most women, nothing short of "cute."

The apartment was comfortable and clean, but I thought of the apartment's Mediterranean, sky-blue trim and off-white facade as a colorful billboard sign pointing the way to a new, purposed-filled life. In fact, as I watched two burly men carry my oak desk up two flights of external switchback wooden stairs and disappear through an open door at the top, the thought that something, anything, could go wrong was as foreign a concept to me as dying or falling out of love.

Full Circle

Almost everyone carries around a bit of Mary Lee's affliction - procrastination brought on by indecision, fear, or convenience. I am no better, or perhaps a little worse than most, regarding the purging of unwanted or underused possessions.

I had almost abandoned Mary Lee's oak desk when I left South Carolina, and had I not taken the time to replace the thick, gray paint with two coats of clear, satin finish, that's exactly what I would have done. Yet, the smooth, tiger-grained desktop was familiar and comfortable with plenty of room for stacking books I intended to read, projects on the verge of completion, or bills I hoped to pay. It was a perfect desk for procrastination.

A few weeks ago, I offered the desk to my boss. A picture posted online sold the idea and and my boss promised to pick it up over the coming weekend. In preparation, I disassembled the sturdy reminder of another era, carefully removing the five heavy drawers and backing out six large wood screws that held the desktop in place. My work revealed a surprisingly lightweight but well constructed framework, mortised, blocked, and glued and engineered, I'm sure, with travel in mind.

I staged the desk for removal in the library near the front entrance of our house and made peace with giving up the desk. Over the next six weeks the nooks and hiding places created by the the neatly stacked drawers and desk frame filled up with everything from art supplies to laundry waiting for a ride to the cleaners. I felt channeled by Mary Lee. However, all the players in the simple exchange procrastinated or otherwise failed to follow through. And so the desk sat and waited for something to happen.

Then, I lost my job and Mary Lee's hoarding disorder made sense. You never can tell when you will need the things you plan to throw away. Better to just keep it all. So after more than 30 years of moving this desk on and off trucks, in and out of station wagons and cars, up and down stairs, in and out of rooms, the desk may have finally found a permanent home.

After filling a few cardboard boxes with family pictures, employee awards, and assorted "personal effects", I told my boss that I'd be needing the desk after all. Then I drove home, reassembled the desk, pushed it underneath the most light filled window in the room and starting working - an outcome only Mary Lee believed in.

An Old Desk Finds A Home

Nearly 33 years ago my roommate in Columbia, SC sold me her desk for $20. She needed the money. I needed a desk. It was a fair and sensible trade. At the time, $20 was a sizable sum of money, but I figured Mary Lee needed the money more than I did and she was, after all, my best friend - and on occasion, perhaps a little more. But that's another story.

Giving the desk up was hardly a sacrifice for Mary Lee. She had been using the desktop principally as a staging area to stack boxes of books and old clothes destined for donation to the Salvation Army. Although the charity had conveniently located its headquarters only a few blocks from our house on the University of South Carolina campus, Mary Lee, as was her nature, procrastinated. And I guess with good reason.

I would often hear the gritty, unpleasant sound of a cardboard box sliding across our old, buckling hardwood floors punctuated by Mary Lee's swearing to no one in particular that this box, and no other, contained an illusive pair of shoes or an old bathing suit she intended to use for a river tubing expedition down the Broad River. In some ways, I thought my purchase of the oversized 1920's office desk was good therapy for Mary Lee. I figured it would force her to finally fill the cargo bay of her her signature red, rattle-trap Toyota truck with the boxes and share her bounty with others.

As it turned out, that transfer of wealth never happened and moving Mary Lee's desk into my room down the hall just made it that much easier for her to pry off the faded, dogeared box tops and dig through the contents with greater frequency. Had Mary Lee's therapist known about the boxes, and I suspect maybe she did, the therapeutic value of purging her room of the containers would have had value beyond measure.

Perhaps carrying the worn boxes one by one down the stairs and across the small lawn to her beloved truck would have allowed Mary Lee to leave the demons of abuse and disappointment behind and get on with her life. Unfortunately, as far as I know, that never happened.

In fact, by the time I left for Austin, TX two years later the number of boxes had grown considerably and Mary Lee referred to the neatly labeled containers in her room as storage units. I remember one of the boxes she labeled as Things I really, really, really don't need! THROW AWAY! A good sign, I thought. Upon closer inspection, however, I discovered that the words THROW AWAY had been scratched out and beside the potentially therapeutic words Mary Lee had scibbled the word maybe. That was sad I thought and a little hurtful.