Reunion

Somewhat impulsively, a 1969 Datsun Roadster finds its way into my life. Red, of course. Driving it around the Western Oregon countryside invites a fresh sense of freedom and independence. It is a sunny day play toy for a middle-aged man. My wife is embarrassed to see a father of teenagers act so silly. Never mind that other older men chase younger shadows, not her husband. She views it as frivolous until one day, home alone without any other car, she has to drive it and falls in love. She hides her smile at first. After that, the old Roadster becomes a family member.

We decide to take a road trip to my wife’s twentieth high school reunion in Olympia, Washington. Most of the route is on Interstate 5. The weather is perfect, or so it seems. Halfway into the trip, the sky darkens, and it begins to rain so hard that our Roadster’s ragtop is leaking. With no defrost and poor wipers, the old Roadster begins to moan and groan. Without warning, the headlights and dash lights fade and dim. The car sputters, and the engine stops, leaving us alongside a freeway in an unusually remote and dark area, with no signs of lights or life. The surprise storm intensifies, obscuring our little car and its small reflectors as transport trucks speed by. It is a frightening predicament. Cell phones haven’t been invented yet. We are marooned.

We have no choice but to start walking to the nearest town for help. We walk two miles to the freeway exit, but there is no sign of even a farmhouse, much less a service station. Still no lights in the distance. Cold and wet, we walk on. My wife says a prayer, followed by a smile when the rain lets up. It is still exceptionally dark and foreboding, and we cannot see the next exit, so we decide to hitchhike. I stick out my thumb, unnoticed in the darkness and rain—not my idea of a fun road trip.

“Who will be willing to pick up two strangers,” we ask each other in despair, “in the middle of nowhere, in the dark of the night at 10 PM?”

After a half-hour, and our hope fading, a pickup truck pulls over. The guy is friendly and asks if that is “our little red car” back there? To our considerable surprise, he is heading to Olympia and attended Linda’s high school. Amazing coincidences prompt a faithful smile from my wife. We decline his offer to go to Olympia but accept a ride to the nearest service station. The first lights are in the little town of Kalama, and fortunately, the only service station is still open at 10:30 PM. After calling for a tow truck, we ride in it down the freeway to get our car. It sits there, battered by the storm, still and lifeless. Jump-starting it is of no avail, so we tow it to Kalama.

The service attendant announces, “I know nothing about cars, and the only auto repair shop in town is closed for the weekend.”

I enjoy a skeptic’s frown. Not for long. The repair shop owner is called and agrees to come to the station and look at our car. He arrives and gives the car a glance of dismay. We push it one block to his garage in the hard rain. He looks at it again and indicates that the problem is the distributor, the closest auto parts store is in Kelso, about thirty miles to the north, and it is closed on weekends. Worse yet, they probably don’t have such a part for an old foreign car. He can order it on Monday from Seattle, and our car will not likely be ready until the end of next week.

Stuck in Kalama, thoughts of an enjoyable high school reunion and road trip begin to fade. The storm worsens. It is too late to call my wife’s parents, as it is nearly midnight, and they are eighty miles away in Olympia. Fortunately, there is a motel in town. We take our luggage and walk in the downpour to the motel. Thoughts of a warm shower and a good night’s sleep provide welcome relief. As we enter the motel, we see the desk clerk hand over the key to the last available room—no room at the inn. Sleeping in the car is out of the question, as it is locked up in the repair shop. The town is dark, the rain is hard, and the temperature is dropping. We are soaked and exhausted.

We find a payphone and look through the yellow pages for ideas—another prayer from my wife, which is comforting to her but of no practical value to me. I wait for her standard response to emergencies: “Call a local church for help. There are no listings, except for one in Longview, twenty miles away. We call the number, hoping that someone might answer on a Friday night after midnight. To our surprise, a woman does answer. She listens to our plight, and indicates that a couple who attends the church lives in Kalama, so “try them.” We do and explain our situation to the man who answers.

His response is memorable, “I will be there in five minutes to get you.”

Amazing, given the fact that we are strangers to him. I see my wife smile again. Faith can be annoying to a rational man coping with harsh realities. We huddle in a closed restaurant doorway to keep warm. A car pulls up, and an older gentleman waves us in and introduces himself as Tom. His easy manner settles our concerns, and quick introductions and appreciations give way to conversation as we drive up the hill to his home.

“My wife is preparing warm soup; you two must be cold and tired. We have a back bedroom where you will be comfortable.”

I reach over the seat to squeeze my wife’s hand.

“What seems to be the problem with your car,” he asks.

The thought of warm soup and sleep quickly fade into despair. I explain that we have a 1969 Datsun Roadster, and the distributor went out.

The car slows, and he turns toward me, “Is that so? I own an auto parts store in Kelso, and if I’m not mistaken, I have what you need. We can get it in the morning.”

I am speechless. I can feel a beaming faithful smile on the back of my neck.

My wife responds graciously, “That’s wonderful.”

She senses that something mystical is peeking over the edge of my bounded rationality, and she tries to hide her delight over humbling a skeptic. Just maybe, God has found us in the middle of nowhere, in the dark of night.

At Tom’s home, the hospitality is overwhelming. After a short visit and a good night’s sleep, a pancake breakfast is waiting for us in the early morning. Fortunately, the older couple are in a position to help, as they have been planning to retire “in the sun” and could have easily left the area. They have been trying to sell their house for nine months, but not a single party has been interested, as the town is small and not a place of attraction to outsiders. Despite ample reason for discouragement, they are buoyant in their enthusiasm for life and transparent in their openness to strangers in need. After breakfast, we drive to town to look at our car. Lifting the hood, Tom discovers that the problem is a loose alternator belt. After exchanging a perturbed glance with the repair shop owner, Tom makes the repair, and the car is drivable again. No need for a trip to Kelso.

“Another small miracle,” is whispered.

Hugs and thanks are exchanged warmly with promises of a return visit. The bond of genuine kindness is incredibly powerful. We drive off under bright morning sun, just in time to reach Olympia for the reunion.

Reunions are always self-revelations, engaging strangers who were once friends. At the evening dinner dance, my companion is in her element, socializing easily, talking and dancing, remembering names at a bewildering pace, and exchanging hugs. I tag along, shake hands with blank faces, and listen to countless stories. Our quiet moments, however, are filled with haunting flashbacks of our experience in Kalama.

We leave Olympia early on Sunday evening, seeking a special gift for the couple in Kalama: Flowers, jellies, candy? Nothing seems right. Perhaps, just a warm expression of appreciation is the best gift. Eighty miles later, we drive up the hill to their home and see the For Sale sign. We also notice “Sold” across it. The couple greet us warmly and explain that shortly after we left, a party came to see their house and made a cash offer. The couple is jubilant. They can retire now. Tears replace our smiles.

I offer no explanation, though it gives a skeptic reason to pause. The woman in my life believes that God touched us and a very special couple in the middle of nowhere, in the dark of night.

—

This experience occurred in July 1982. We never had contact with the couple again. We did not take the Roadster to any future reunions. The Roadster was a family member for over three decades. In 2015, its mileage was just under 500,000.