Holiday travel by air can be parlous here in the Northeast, and especially so during the winter, when the weather gods often seem to be toying with our plans. Still, Bea and I enjoy so much being with my son’s family in Arkansas that we chance a visit at Christmastime each year.
Not only is it a brief break from our icy temperatures; it’s also an immersion in a culture thoroughly American, and almost Southern, as well. One year, the year of the great Christmas storm, we didn’t make it at all. It was the year of Lost Luggage. Remember the photos of suitcases and duffel bags piled up on terminal floors, looking for owners whose whereabouts were unknown? We took a look at those, and when offered a chance to change in Chicago instead of Charlotte, demurred. Instead, we sat tight for four days on the shore of Broad Sound and marveled at the surf splashing (Bea’s house sits at the edge of the water) on the front porch windows.
The weather gods gave us a pass this year. Everything ran like a Swiss watch. The cab to the airport arrived at 7:10 on the dot, driven by a burly Haitian. I use a wheelchair to get around airports these days, which gets us to the security checkpoint without waiting in line, though my metallic content seems to excite the guardians at the detector. Our plane took off on time; we had about a three-hour layover in Charlotte, which gave us a chance to dine in a German-themed restaurant with (be still, my heart!) German lager; and the lovely young lady in charge of our section of the plane came up with a jigger of very peppy bourbon. I arrived in Arkansas with a smile upon my face. My son met us at the baggage carousels and whisked us home.
We were looking forward to two banquets. One of my granddaughters has married into a large family, so there’d be no shortage of company. Northwest Arkansas is a maze of four-lane highways. We got wherever we were going in little time. By the end of each day we were ready for a rest. We throttled back by watching old movies, notably “Miracle on 34thStreet,” with Edmund Gwenn and Maureen O’Hara.
But I had another agenda in mind. For some months I’ve been looking for a particular vintage car, a Volkswagen Thing, and all the good ones online have been in the mid-South. My son had located what looked like the best of the bunch in a town named Nixa, in Missouri not far from Springfield. Everyone I talked to about it agreed that I shouldn’t make any decisions about it (as I was about to do) until I actually saw it in the flesh, as it were. So the day after Christmas the four of us – Bea and I, my son, and his wife – climbed into the Bronco and made the two-hour drive to Missouri.
The bare trees – oaks, I’d guess– stood stark against the sky, not one of them straight enough to make a piece of lumber. It was karst country; the road cuts displayed thick beds of limestone. Bea’d never been in Missouri before (she keeps track, and can’t claim to have been anywhere unless she’s put her feet upon the ground), so she was looking forward to getting there. I was rehearsing a scenario of offers, refusals, and eventual agreements. I’d need to add the cost of shipping the car in a covered truck.
Finally, here was Nixa (we were guessing it was a Mormon name, but it turned out to’ve been named after a prominent local blacksmith). Siri led us to the dealership, and there was the car. The young man in charge was instantly likable and had a good handshake. A Methodist; I asked. He described the modifications that had been made. My son lay on his back and peered underneath for the usual nemesis of old VWs, belly pan rust, and pronounced it repaired, but in pretty good shape. I’d already made up my mind to buy it if I could reach agreement with the owner.
I thought I’d better get in the driver’s seat, start it up, and check out the transmission. I opened the door, an old familiar feeling (I’ve had two Things in the past), and swung my leg up. And swung it again. And finally picked it up and put a foot in. The modifications had included raising the car a few inches. Hmm. Elizabeth, my daughter-in-law who’s a frequent reality check, suggested I put my back end in first and then pull my feet up. I tried, but my feet wouldn’t come through the narrow opening between the seat and the door jamb. There was no way this was going to work. I was surprised how easily I faced the inevitable and the impossible. I bade the dealer a regretful good-by and turned my attention to the next stop, Waxy’s Irish pub in Branson. Bea’d never been there, either.
