Galaxie Quest

There I am, minding my own beeswax, writing the sequel to my debut novel. Living the dream, you know. When suddenly, into a climatic chapter screeches a car.  

Not just any car. No. The hero (finally) drives into the scene in a classic, enormous white Ford. A Ford I’ve met before. In 1972, to be specific. This car’s a beaut. A beast. Like so many cars of yore, it oozes character, glamour, muscle.

But the automotive details are a little hazy. So I contact Charlie. I’ve told y’all about Charlie before. (Click on the blue highlighted link to read more about him. Trust me, you’ll want to.) He was my high school best friend, the brother I always yearned for. When he came to pick me up for shopping or to motor to the community pool or go out for some ice cream, he showed up in a white Ford.

I had a hunch it was a Galaxie 500 (why on earth I remembered that, heaven knows), so I text Charlie out of the blue, lampshading my request for info with an Easter blessing. I mean, he’s a priest and it seems the polite onramp for a random text.

Good morning, Charlie! Did you have a blessed Easter? Just a quick question, what Ford was the big white one we used to drive around in? What kind was it? I know this is a weird question, but I need the information.

Have you ever noticed that a person’s text response—both in substance and timing—largely depends on how interested or invested they are in the subject? Charlie is a very, very busy Monseigneur, presiding over a huge church and parish. It’s the day after Easter. He’s probably mopping the weary brow or praying for his parishioners. Or both. So, I didn’t expect to hear from him for a while.

A few minutes after I pinged him, his response came darting back:
Hey, it was a white (red interior) 1965 Ford Galaxie 500 with half-moon hubcaps. Charlie

I thought how sad that Charlie had forgotten how to spell Galaxy and gently corrected him in my text. (As any car buff knows, he was totally right.)
Me: I *thought* it was a Galaxy 500. Don’t you wish you had that sweet ride now? Whoops, forgot to ask—bench seats, not bucket, right?
C: Bench seats, NOT bucket. No power steering and no power brakes.
Me: Manpower! What became of that car? Did it have a nickname?
C: No nickname. Don’t remember its demise.
M: Well, it’s living again in my book! One more question, did it have stick or automatic?
C: Automatic and no air conditioning, just vents.

I thank him and race to my laptop to make that very car roll onto the sizzling parking lot of the chapter’s setting.

It arrives in all its Detroit splendor, a heavy metal monster. I see the scruffy red carpeting, complete with Coke and popsicle stains. The gleaming chrome we polished during driveway washings with sponges and rags, sudsy buckets and the garden hose. I fight the stubbornness of the tiny, triangular vent window as I crank it open to catch a breeze on Maryland’s hot, sticky summer nights. On the radio, Three Dog Night is singing “Mama Told Me Not to Come” and I take the high part. I hear the funny Ford trademark coughing surrender of the engine being turned off (with a key!). Once again, I singe my cutoff-exposed legs on the sun-scorched passenger-side seat, and I hang my head out the window to let my long, long chestnut brown hair float and tangle on the muggy wind.  

And, what’s even more wonderful, Charlie’s total recall tells me that car lives in his memory, too. A guy doesn’t forget his first car. And neither does the lucky girl he drives around.

Why is this such a big deal? Why my sudden tears? (Happy or sad, I couldn’t tell.) Because in God’s economy, nothing you live through is useless. No experience is wasted. The Keeper of our stories knows how to bring good from it all. How to use anything to restore the years the locusts have eaten. Which memories have the power to heal a broken or lonely heart. And He assigns each one a sacred holding place in our soul until it’s needed.

Cruising through the torpid suburban twilights with my pal Charlie has (apparently) never left my mind. Oh, sure, it’s been tucked away and neatly tarped in my mind’s garage, waiting patiently for me to stumble upon the key that lets me heave open that door. To rev ‘er up for the creation of a very special, very real moment in my 1970’s rom-com. Its time has come.

So, dear reader, when Roland rumbles into town in a white Galaxie 500 and coaxes Dana to slide over on the red bench seat and into his arms, you’ll know where he got the car.

He rented it from my quietly idling dreams.

And I will restore to you the years that the locust hath eaten… (Joel 2:25)