We have a saying around our house: If it’s not where it’s supposed to be, it’s in The Truck.
Mr. Fix-It drives a Silverado pickup truck. It could be the poster image for any car wash and detailing shop in the country. Before I get in it, I make sure my shots are up-to-date.
In his defense, Mr. Fix-It considers his vehicle to be functional. It serves the purpose of getting him from one place to another. It is also his tool box, lunch room, office, portable den and rolling trash bin.
It is his domain, his traveling Man Cave. If I want him to keep his mouth shut about the house, I strive diligently to keep my opinions about The Truck to myself.
Until now.
Occasionally, something will be missing from the house — drinking glass, eating utensil, storage container, sofa — that even the best hunt cannot seem to unearth. Against my highest hopes, I resign myself that The Truck must be the current resting place for the AWOL item.
Donning rubber gloves and goggles, I open the door to Chevy’s version of Fibber McGee’s closet. If nothing hits me in the head or lands on my toe, I begin my search through cloth bags bursting with dog-eared do-it-yourself magazines, drawings of projects I had been assured were fleeting thoughts, cups with dried coffee cemented in the bottom, and a couple of shriveled black banana peels. Mr. Fix-It is King of the Tote Bag. He keeps his life in them.
Venturing under the seats, I wade through 13 faded newspapers, four jackets, three pairs of gloves, and a scarf as my search for the missing items continues. The pocket of one of the jackets contains a fork I can check off my list. Buried in the finger of a glove I locate a spoon that had to have slid into its resting place through a means I can only imagine. The afternoon’s expedition through the extended cab with its various nooks and crannies winds to a close. My found objects bag is heavy with cups, glasses, mugs, utensils, a couple of books, some of Keegan’s toys and a Sippy cup he’d pitched into the map pocket. If he wants to learn how to squirrel away objects, his time with his grandfather is yielding masterful skills one can only strive to achieve.
Taking stock on the mission, I realize I’m still missing some items: a cereal bowl, two Tupperware containers, and a remote control to the DVD player. If they aren’t in the truck and they’re not in the house, where on earth could they be?
Walking back to the house, I survey the surroundings. Where has Mr. Fix-It been working that would have carried a remote control that had fallen from his pocket? Has it been rained on? Would it still work? Has it been smushed under the truck wheel? (He did that with a cell phone once.)
My mind races through possibilities. Re-tracing his activities since the items went missing, I brave the attic where he had been working days before. Perched on a box is one of the Tupperware containers. Oh, good. I won’t have to try to put leftover spaghetti in a Ziploc bag.
In the storage room under the porch, the second Tupperware container peeks from behind a paint can. Two items down, two to go. Where in the world could they be?
Normally, a cereal bowl would not be a critical item. This one, though, is part of a matched set I didn’t buy at the discount store. I would really hate to have to replace it.
Looking around, my eyes wander back to The Truck. My pulse quickens as the answer looms right under my nose.
The Truck bed. Its camper top cloaks a virtual hotbed teeming with sinks, yard tools, plumbing parts, tools, discarded bags, and things never before seen by human eyes. I was thankful I didn’t have to get my compass and pith helmet for there in plain sight was the cereal bowl with the remote control.
It gives one a sense of renewal when a mission is successfully completed. Nothing was too far from home and the items that should not have been outside in the first place were retrieved without their being damaged. By the grace of God, Mr. Fix-It was redeemed.
He and The Truck will continue in their perpetual state of bliss. It will remain his sanctuary from the cares of the world. I’m just thankful I know where he keeps the keys.
Helen Person is a former Winder resident residing in Virginia. You can send comments about this column to haperson.VA@gmail.com
