LIKE A ROCK, The Chevy Pickup and other Unsung Heroes

          In the spring of 1988 my old green Mercury had a seizure on the road just south of Jacksonville, NB, Canada. I pulled over on the shoulder and we crippled on in to the dealership in Woodstock, where it died.

            Knowing for some time the Mercury was about to join the realm of its ancestors, I'd already given some thought to a new vehicle. I needed something trustworthy, something that handled well, good for winter driving and large enough for me to get in and out easily. (I hate trying to get in and out of a vehicle with my knees around my ears.)  Besides running around the countryside taking photos of potato fields and writing about prize animals for the Farm issue of the local paper, I was in the process of fixing up my house and I wanted a vehicle in which I could transport lumber and other items for my various projects. Since my two large dogs  liked traveling with me, it would be good to be able to drive without having something drooling down my neck and decorating my duds in dog hair.

             I pointed across the lot to a new blue Chevy pick-up and asked how much. $15,000. I wrote out a cheque without a quibble. (the salesman likely thought he'd died and gone to heaven.) A week later I came back and had a new matching cap installed.

            For the next 12 years the Chevy pick-up served me well. My brother built a blue box which fitted between the driver's and the passenger's seats. It held maps, books, sun glasses, decks of cards and spare clothes. It had a removable top that doubled as a typing table or food tray.

            Not only did I use the pick-up for work, I used it for trips around the Maritimes, for a six week camping trip across Canada with my friend Jane, two tents, two camp beds and two dogs.  I used it to transport antique furniture from the home place to my sister's in Greensboro, North Carolina.

            Only once did it let me down and it wasn't exactly the pick-up's fault. I'd driven over a large rock on a lumber road and knocked the tail-pipe askew. Also I'd noticed a spot of pink transmission fluid in the snow where I'd parked it overnight. I knew that pets were attracted to taste of  transmission fluid and that it is poisonous to them. So off to town I went to get it all fixed.

            My first question to the mechanic who looked at the muffler was, of course, how much? "Well, you're looking at $140 for the muffler and tailpipe."

            I took a deep breath.  As a freelancer I hadn't earned $140 in the past three weeks.  "Well, I guess I have no choice," I said, "go ahead."

            "And then, it looks like the shocks are leaking..."

            "How much?"  He quoted a figure, then mentioned that the breaks were faulty and, lastly I was looking at a new transmission. All in all around $800. I yelped.

            "Well, I have to think about all that, I said. Just fix the muffler so I can get back on the road." It came to close to $200 by the time he'd added labor and tacked on tax.

            As it happened that evening  George McLean dropped by to see how I was making out with my house renovations.  George and I had known each other since Grade One.  I started to snivel and whine almost before he sat down.  He listened for a few minutes and then stopped me.  "Now look," George said. "Before you do anything else, I want you to drive over to Avondale and let David or Lloyd Walton look at that truck. I'm surprised it would need all that work. That truck's less than two years old." 

            The following morning I drove the three miles to Avondale and talked to Lloyd Walton.  It turned out to be one of the best moves I've ever made.

            Lloyd listened to my long tale of woe. He checked the transmission fluid level and found it full. Then he put the truck up on the lift. He checked the brakes and the shocks.  He pulled a greasy rag out of the back pocket of his overalls, and wiped around the gasket under the engine.   Then he took a screwdriver and tightened the five screws holding the gasket in place.

            "Sometimes when there has been an abrupt change in the temperature and we have a few warm days followed by a freeze-up, the metal expands and contracts which loosens the screws," he explained. "That's probably why you saw the drop of transmission fluid on the snow. There's nothing wrong with the brakes, no wear at all that I can see. As for the shocks, they look fine. It would be hard to tell if they were leaking if you'd been driving in the rain."

           I followed Lloyd to the counter, where he wrote out a bill for $3.87, to cover the cost of his labor plus tax.  "Are you sure that's enough?"

            "Oh yes," Lloyd said. "I didn't have to do anything really."  By heeding George McLean's advice I'd saved myself close to $1,000 and learned a valuable lesson. More important: I'd found an honest mechanic.

            During the last 20 years David and Lloyd Walton have looked after all my vehicle repairs. Whether is it a vehicle permit, oil change, installation of summer or winter tires, windshield wipers or something more serious they have provided the best service possible.  In my books, the Waltons are definitely among the unsung heroes. Every time I hear anyone mention their car needs work, I send them to Avondale Auto.

            I'd sold the blue pickup shortly after I was married but I spotted it in Bristol the other day, and it's still going strong.

            "Like a rock...."