Veeduber wrote:
>
>
> He came down the back drive just before midnight on Christmas Eve. I
> was out in the shop, about to call it a night when I heard the
> unmistakable sound of a Volkswagen running on three cylinders. Bad
> valve.
>
> It was an early model high-roof delivery van. Bright red with white
> trim. He pulled up behind the shop. As he shut down the engine it made
> that unmistakable tinny rattle of a dropped valve seat. Good thing he
> shut it off when he did.
>
> There was a barber pole logo painted on the door: "NicEx" A young old-
> guy jumped out, came toward me offering his hand. He was wearing a
> snowmobile suit, red & white like the van. I could smell the engine.
> It was running 'way too hot.
>
> "Fred Dremmer," he said. We shook. He was about my age, mebbe a little
> more, but young, if you know what I mean - alive. Phony beard, though.
> It was his own hair but too shiny and perfectly white to be natural. I
> eyed the get-up he was wearing, took another gander at the door. "Nice-
> x?"
>
> "Nick ex," he corrected me. "I've got the franchise for this ZIP
> code." He looked around, noted the tumbledown appearance of the shop,
> victim of an earthquake that never happened, thanks to politics. "Are
> you still building engines?" he asked.
>
> "Not so's you'd notice." It was pushing on toward midnight and colder
> than a well- diggers knee. His shoulders slumped down.
>
> "But you used to build engines," he said hopefully. I didn't deny it.
> "They said you offered a lifetime warranty." Actually, I didn't offer
> any warranty. Most of the engines I built were high- output big- bore
> strokers. A firecracker doesn't carry any warranty either. And for the
> same reason. But if I built it, I promised to fix it if they could get
> it back to the shop. And if the problem was my fault, there was never
> any charge. So I told him, "Something like that."
>
> "My van has one of your engines," he said. "In fact, I think all the
> franchisees use them."
> "This I gotta see," I laughed. He ran around to get the church-key but
> I'd popped the engine hatch with my pocketknife by the time he got
> back. I twisted on my mini-maglite and sure enough, there was HVX
> stamped right where I'd stamped it. It was one of the lower numbers, a
> bone stock 1600 I'd built back in the seventies. Big sigh.
>
> "Can't you fix it?" I gave him a look and he shut up. It had just
> gone midnight, clear and cold and silent. The on-shore flow had
> increased, bringing with it the charred smell of disaster. About a
> mile to the west of me a family's house had caught fire and burned to
> the ground only hours before. Merry Christmas indeed. I straightened
> up, knees creaking, and went to fetch the floor jack. As I moved away
> from the vehicle the guy got all excited, plucked at my arm. "Really,
> it's very important... " I snarled something appropriate and he let me
> go, stood like a dejected lump in his idiotic outfit. He brightened up
> when I came back towing the floor jack, a pair of jackstands in my
> other hand.
>
> "You're going to fix it?" If he was a puppy he would have been licking
> my face.
>
> "Nope. You got a bad valve." I got the jack under the tranny support
> and started pumping. "Which ain't my fault, by the way. I built this
> engine nearly thirty years ago. You've gotten your money's worth and
> then some." I got the jackstands under the torsion bar housing, went
> around and chocked the front wheels.
>
> "I wasn't complaining... " he began.
>
> "Well I was," I shut him off. Veedub valves don't last thirty years,
> especially when they're pushing a van around.
>
> "It always ran perfectly." His tone was placating. And it was
> Christmas Eve. Or rather, 0015 Christmas Day. "And it never gets
> driven very much, or so I was told." I gave a snort of disgust. Thirty
> years is thirty years and every salesman always sez the thing was only
> used to take the family to church on Sundays. I got a tarp and my
> small tool bag, rolled the tarp out under the back of the high-roof,
> dug out my head lamp, checked the batteries. Dead, of course. Began
> taking the battery case apart.
>
> "Need some batteries?" He was right there, offering me a 4-pak of new
> Ray-O- Vac's. Right size, too. I put the thing back together, tested
> it. "What are you doing, exactly."
>
> "Swapping engines," I grunted. I handed him a ratchet with a 13mm
> socket and pointed at the rear apron bolts. "Whip'em outta there. And
> don't lose the washers."
>
> I skivvied under and got the surprise of my life. The thing was clean.
> As in showroom new. No road rash. No oily residue. Original factory
> axle boots so clean and new they gave a tiny squeak when I touched
> them. But no heater ducts. In fact, no heat exchangers, which
> explained why the guy was wearing a snowsuit.
>
> "Does this mean I can finish my route?" He was bent over, peering at
> me upside down.
>
> "Not unless you get those damn bolts out, it don't." I was running my
> hand over the paintwork. It had been treated with some sort of
> surfactant. It felt oily smooth but left no residue on my fingers and
> didn't seem to attract dirt. There were steel rails re-enforcing the
> frame on each side. They ran as far aft as the bumper mount. I
> couldn't tell how far forward they went. "You do all this?" I shouted
> as I crimped-off the fuel line. The breast tin had one of my early
> bulkhead fittings, the ones I made out of brass before discovering
> lamp parts worked just as well. I popped off the hose. No dribble but
> I plugged it anyway.
>
> "I don't maintain the vehicle," the fellow shouted back. "They do all
> that at headquarters. What should I do with the bolts?"
>
> "Put them in your pocket." I skivvied back out, popped loose the
> battery ground strap, removed the rear apron, disconnected the
> electrics and removed the barrel nut holding the accelerator wire. I
> gave it to him. "Keep this with them." I put the little plywood pallet
> on the floor jack, got it positioned under the engine, jacked it up
> and pulled that puppy outta there.
>
> Fred Dremmer was impressed. He even told me so. "I'm impressed," he
> said. Then he said "Happy Christmas." It was 0030 and I was tired.
> "Balance that," I told him, tapping the top of the blower housing. I
> grabbed the handle of the jack and used it as a trolley to pull the
> engine into the shop.
>
> He stood looking around while I dug the spare engine out from under
> the bench. It was already on a scooter. "What happened?" he asked
> softly.
>
> "Look down," I snarled. "You'll figure it out."
>
> He looked down, toed the gaping crack that ran across the floor like a
> lightning bolt, saw the way the shop was sloping. "Earthquake?"
>
> "Northridge. Popped the foundation like a pane of glass." I pulled the
> engine out into the open, keeping it on the level part of the floor.
>
> "Don't they offer special loans... "
>
> "Only if you're in the 'official' earthquake zone," I laughed. He
> started making apologetic sounds. "Balance that," I told him. We
> scootered the spare engine out of the shop.
>
> I had to swap mufflers. His came away okay, thanks to the lavish
> amounts of anti-seize someone had swabbed on the fittings. It was one
> of those lifetime stainless steel bus mufflers from Germany or England
> or some damn place. Cost the earth. He looked around, sat down on the
> workbench when I nodded toward it. We were out back of the shop, under
> the shed roof. Plenty of light.
>
> "So what are you getting for Christmas," he asked, smiling.
>
> I just looked at him, shook my head. I work best without an audience.
> "You want some coffee or something? This is going to take me a few
> minutes."
>
> He said No; he had a thermos of tea in the van. "Seriously, what do
> you want for Christmas?" he smiled.
>
> "Not being pestered in the middle of the night would be nice," I
> muttered.
>
> He just laughed, as if I was joking. "Seriously," he said again.
>
> "You want 'seriously'? Howabout a new house for those folks down the
> hill?"
>
> He gave me a blank look and I realized he didn't know about the fire.
> So I told him. He ended up looking as sad as I felt. "What do you
> think they'd like for Christmas?" I goaded him. I shook my head, "It's
> mostly bull**** anyway. A birthday party that's gotten outta hand."
> And the best evidence of that was right there in front of me, some
> yuppie asshole Yuletide delivery service running around on Christmas
> Eve in an antique bus. He stood gazing off toward where the fire was.
> It had been a huge blaze, you could see it good from the house. Hopes
> and dreams and Christmas trees are all highly combustible.
>
> I finished transferring the J-tubes and muffler to the spare engine
> and he helped me shift it on to the jack. We pulled it out to his bus
> and I started putting it in.
>
> "It's unusual to find someone who doesn't want anything for
> Christmas," he said. I'd given him a pair of vise grips to hold. I
> didn't need them but I figured it would make him feel useful, mebbe
> shut him up. Wrong.
>
> "I've got everything I want." I'd checked the splines. Things were
> lining up good. His seals looked new. I gave them a spray of glycerin
> so they wouldn't grab the engine.
>
> "That's even more unusual," he said. He was smiling, acting a little
> antsy but working hard to keep me happy so he could get the hell out
> of there. About the worst thing that could happen to him would be for
> me to slow down. So I did.
>
> "People spend too much time wishing for things they don't need." I
> patted the red high- roof. "I'll bet this thing is chock full of
> yuppie junk, eh?" He looked uncomfortable, passed the pair of vise
> grips from hand to hand. "And what about you? I'll bet you're some
> sort of retired executive, working a little Christmas-time tax dodge
> to supplement your retirement, eh? Bleached beard with a platinum
> rinse, funny suit and this oh-so-cute Santa's Helper delivery van,
> popping up in the middle of the night to trade on an implied warranty
> almost thirty years old?"
>
> "What are you saying?" He looked kinda angry. The sight was as silly
> as his costume.
>
> "You wouldn't understand," I sighed. I fished the throttle wire thru
> the blower housing, plugged the engine back in, started the upper nuts
> and shanghaied him into holding the wrench while I skivvied back
> under. Did the nuts, torqued to spec, did the fuel line, checked
> things over, skivvied back out. With everything installed underneath,
> I began putting the engine compartment to rights.
>
> "You mean the religious aspect," he said.
>
> "You heard about that, eh?" I kept working.
>
> "Are you a religious man?" he asked softly. I was connecting the
> generator leads. I wanted to ignore him but couldn't. I stopped,
> rocked back so I could see his face.
>
> "Yeah," I told him. "I'm religious as hell. And so are you. But the
> difference is you worship money and I don't."
>
> "And you can tell all that just by working on my van?" He was smiling.
> He was no longer angry but really cheerful.
>
> "Yeah, I can. You've had some sort of anti-stick powder-coating
> process applied to the whole undercarriage. That must of set you back
> some major bucks. But it's not a car- show kinda van otherwise it
> would be all original underneath. That tells me you did it so you
> could impress your customers with your shiny, never dirty ride and
> that tells me you probably charge some big bucks for your Christmas
> Eve delivery service gig."
>
> That wiped the grin off his face. "Very astute," he muttered. Then
> frowned. "But if you knew it was all just another Christmas-biz
> scheme, why are we standing out here in the middle of the night while
> you repair the engine?"
>
> I laughed at him. "See? I said you wouldn't understand."
>
> I finished the hook-ups, connected the battery, replaced the rear
> apron, connected the throttle wire, wiped everything down. "Go run the
> starter for a minute. We gotta prime the carb." He clumped around to
> the front and got in. I hadn't noticed the boots until then. Or the
> buckles. Ridiculous.
>
> I held the throttle open while he ran the starter. He held it down for
> about thirty seconds then came clumping back. "Won't it start?"
>
> "It'll start."
>
> "Shall I do it some more?"
>
> "Not right now." I sat there, loaded a pipe, got it going. He turned
> out to be a pipe man too. Some foreign smelling crap. I've got Prince
> Albert in the can. I mentioned that fact but he didn't get the joke.
> Or mebbe he did. It was about a quarter after one.
>
> "What are we waiting for?"
>
> "For the starter to cool. It'll start now." And it did. Nice steady
> idle.
>
> I took his credit card and driver's license, did the paper work. He
> balanced the clipboard on the steering wheel, signed both slips
> without question. "This is just a deposit," I explained. "Bring back
> my engine, you can tear it up." But right then I had a premonition I
> wouldn't see him or my engine again.
>
> "What was it I didn't understand?" he asked softly. It sounded like he
> really wanted to know.
>
> "Christmas presents?" I motioned toward the back of the van. There was
> a partition behind the driver's seat that blocked my view. He nodded.
> "That's what you don't understand." He looked blank. "I get mine all
> year 'round," I laughed.
>
> "Like what?"
>
> "Like my family." He gave me that frown again and I laughed. "See? You
> haven't got a clue. A smile from my wife is a better thing to have
> than any of the crap you've got back there."
>
> The dawn of understanding began to break across his brows. "That's...
> that's pretty old fashioned."
>
> "Old as the hills," I agreed. "Older than Christmas, too."
>
> Now he got it. "I'm sorry," he stammered. "I assumed you were a
> Christian... "
>
> "I am," I laughed. "Of a sort. And a Muslim, if it comes right down to
> it. And a Buddhist and a Jew and Inuit too." And maybe a touch of
> White Buffalo.
>
> Now he was laughing and nodding. "Okay, I get it. I think." But I
> didn't think he did. He cocked his head, gave me a thoughtful look.
> "Yours must be an interesting wish-list."
>
> I smiled back at him. Maybe he really did get it. "Sunsets are nice. A
> good sunset is a thing to be thankful for."
>
> "Good health..." he offered. I nodded. He was clearly getting it. "Good
> friends..."
>
> "That's the idea. All that..." I gestured toward the back of the van, "...
> is just... stuff."
>
> "It's the thought that counts..."
>
> "Yeah, but only if the thought is there all year 'round. Christmas
> dinner for the homeless followed by 364 hungry days? Gimme a break."
>
> He nodded again, slower this time. "What about the engine?"
>
> "Because I said I would."
>
> That one took him a minute. Then he got it. "Trust..."
>
> "And honor... yeah, stuff like that. Telling someone you'll do something
> then actually doing it... That's a present of sorts in today's world."
>
> "But... thirty years later..."
>
> "Doesn't matter. What got me ****ed was you showing up in the middle
> of the night. And that silly suit! Do you know you look like Santa
> Claus?" This time we both laughed.
>
> "But haven't you ever wished for something at Christmas?" he asked
> softly.
>
> "You mean, like world peace or wishing no one's house would ever burn
> down on Christmas Eve..."
>
> He interrupted me with a gesture. "No, I meant something personal. A
> tool, perhaps?"
>
> "I've got all the tools I need."
>
> He kept looking at me. "Never wished for anything? Not even once?"
>
> "Sure," I laughed. "When I was a kid."
>
> "What was it?"
>
> Time sucked me back more than half a century. "A wagon," I admitted.
> "A 'Radio Flyer' wagon. It was about the same color as your van.
> Roller bearing wheels. It was the most beautiful thing I'd ever
> seen."
>
> I was five years old. I can still smell the oiled wooden floor of the
> Montgomery Ward store in the little California town as I knelt to
> worship the marvelous machine. They had it propped up so you could
> spin the wheels, listen to the oily purr of the roller bearings. I was
> sure it could go at least a hundred miles an hour and carry me any
> place I wanted to go, a magic carpet disguised in steel.
>
> "Did you get it?" The soft question drew me back. Overhead the stars
> snapped back into focus on the velvet cape of night.
>
> "Take care of my engine," I ordered as I shut his door, stepped away
> from the vehicle.
>
> He slid back the glass. "Did you?"
>
> "You're going to be late. Wouldn't want to upset all those yuppies."
> He considered that, conceded the point with a nod. He fired it up and
> backed cautiously up the drive then went rolling down the hill toward
> the road.
>
> I slept late. When I stepped out of the shower there was a steaming
> cup of coffee in my favorite mug. Someone had laid out my shaving
> tackle. The kitchen was full of smiles and good smells of things to
> eat as the women prepared our Christmas dinner. My wife gave me a big
> kiss and a bigger smile. "I almost tripped over it when the kids
> arrived," she laughed. I had no idea what she meant, gave her a blank
> stare. She gave me a playful punch. "Fool. It's perfect. I can use it
> for moving flower pots and carrying potting mix..." Something exploded
> in the microwave and she joined the fire brigade. I took my coffee out
> to the patio.
>
> It was parked on the walk under the hibiscus, just inside the redwood
> gate. A coaster wagon agleam in red. It looked brand new. It even
> smelled new. Radio Flyer in white script along the side of the bed.
> The handle was black. The wheels white with thick black rubber
> tires.
>
> My wife came out, slipped her arm around my waist, leaned her head on
> my shoulder. "It's beautiful. Where did you ever find it?"
>
> In the kitchen, my daughter overhead her. "He probably made it!"
> Everyone laughed. Even me.
>
> "Is this what you've been working on? You came to bed awfully late."
>
> I shook my head, sipped my coffee. My great-grandmother was Kiowa.
> Coffee was 'burnt-bean-soup'. And still is, to me. "No. I think it's a
> gift."
>
> My wife gave me an odd look. "Who would give us something like
> that?"
>
> "I don't know. Maybe a white buffalo."
>
> She laughed, hugged me a little harder. "You're crazy."
>
> "Yep," I agreed.
>
> -Bob Hoover
> -Christmas, 1998


Thanks Bob , and Merry Christmas to you and yours.

Rich