By: Barbara Spear
Many years ago, when I was a teenager, my friend Josh bought a shiny red 1963 Corvette convertible. He claimed he was middle-aged crazy at the time, and the Vette gave him a sense of youthful spirit. Josh's wife thought the purchase was ridiculous and refused even to ride in the Vette. I loved the convertible; it was the first Corvette I'd ever seen up close, and I loved riding the winding country roads near Josh's home. When I got my driver's license, Josh bravely let me take his Vette out for a celebration ride. I was a clumsy new driver, intimidated by the power. It was a high point in my teenage years and the guys were green with envy when they learned that I'd driven a Vette.
As the years went by, Josh drove his '63 less and less. A touch of arthritis made climbing in and out of the Vette difficult. Josh finally parked it in the carriage house on his property. I grew up and my work took me to a different state, but I kept in touch with Josh. About every other year, I'd come back to visit my family during the holidays, and I always stopped at Josh's house for some hot chocolate and reminiscing. We always made a pilgrimage through the heavily drifted snow to the carriage house to check on the '63. I noticed that each time we visited, there was a little more dust and a few more cracks in the interior, but to Josh's now clouded eyes, the little red convertible was just as snazzy as the day he bought it.
My work kept me away for several years. Josh sent a letter one June telling me that his wife had passed away. I sent my condolences and promised to try to get back for the holidays. I didn't make it.
The next year, I promised Josh I'd be there. My schedule was tight, but I kept my word. When I got to Josh's house, he met me at the door with a cup of hot chocolate. He was now stooped with arthritis and hobbled a bit as he walked. We talked and reminisced about my teenage tomboy years. Josh even pulled out some old photos of me working on the Vette. When I suggested we make our pilgrimage to the carriage house, Josh shook his head and pulled a ring of keys from his pocket. The trek was too much for his aching joints, but Josh told me to check out his Vette and report back.
A flurry of snowflakes dusted my face as I trudged through the deep drifts toward the carriage house. I tussled with the lock and dodged the icicles that dropped when the huge door opened. By the frosted window light, I could see the little red convertible. It was dustier than ever. When Josh parked it for good, he left the top down, so even the interior was layered with dust. I walked around to the passenger side and carefully opened the door. My gloved hand left a clean spot. As I slid into the seat, years of adulthood were swept away.
I peered through the cloudy windshield. I could see, once again, the winding country roads, and hear the pop tunes from twenty years ago mingling with the wind that whipped around us. Now, myself approaching middle age, I clearly understood the lure of this Vette. Now, it brought me the same youthful spirit it had brought to Josh, so many years ago.
When I returned to the house, I reported to Josh that everything was fine and the Vette was as shiny as ever. Josh smiled and his aging eyes twinkled as he said, "some things just get better with age, don't they."
That winter was hard on Josh. Pneumonia kept him in bed for weeks, then a bad fall sent him to the hospital. After a long recovery, he returned home, but my sister said he was very weak. I wrote to him, but my letters went unanswered. In early June, my sister called to say that Josh was failing. My work schedule was hectic, but I decided to go back home anyway. Maybe a visit and some reminiscing would lift his spirits. I knew he would be too weak to take a ride in the '63, but we could still share the friendship the Vette had helped create.
By the time I got to my sister's house, Josh had already passed away. My sister handed me a small box wrapped in brown paper. "This came for you a couple of days ago," she said. I opened the box. Inside was a folded sheet of paper. As I unfolded it, photos and a set of keys dropped into my lap. The weakly scribbled handwritten note read:
With tears in my eyes, I looked at my sister. "Josh's niece brought the box. She told him you were coming, but he was pretty confused at the end. He must have thought it was winter, since you usually come home for the holidays. He told his niece he wanted you to have the Vette, but he wanted to give it to you himself, in his own way."
My trek to the carriage house was a lonely one. I walked past the main house and its newly planted "For Sale" sign without stopping. I unlocked the door gingerly and went in. I don't know what I was expecting, perhaps to see Josh sitting at the wheel. The little red convertible sat before me as it always had. I could even see where I'd brushed the dust off the year before. Slowly and hesitantly I opened the glove box and removed the title. It had my name on it, and it was dated the year Josh's wife had died. Knowing how his wife felt about the Vette, I figured that Josh hung onto it as a quiet act of defiance, a refusal to grow up -- or old. I wondered why Josh didn't tell me about transferring the title sooner. I hoped he hadn't felt that if he gave me the Vette, he'd lose me too.
I looked again at the little red convertible and realized that Josh had waited until he was sure that I understood the Vette's true value: friendship and youthful spirit.
As I left the carriage house, I realized how important my friendship with Josh had been to both of us. I realized too, that though he was gone, he would never be forgotten. I would always remember him and the joyful times we had together in the little red convertible.
Copyright 1996 Barbara Spear
