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Frozen Prayers |
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| By Ron Graybill | |||||||||
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Something strange was happening under the hood of the old truck
that Friday morning. Mrs. Martin became tense when she noticed a wisp of
white steam. Her fists tightened, and she forgot about the cold as she sat
with her eyes glued on the hood. She hoped Jeff hadn’t seen it.
Pushing her numb hands deeper into her overcoat pocket, she
wondered what the steam was from. Had the water started to boil again?
Would they be left stranded? She slowly relaxed, and the cold crept back
in around her. It had been even colder than this the night before, colder
than she or Jeff had anticipated.
“I’d like to get a ride with you to Mantica tomorrow,” Mrs.
Martin had said to him that day before.
Jeff had glanced down at the boards in the porch for a moment, then
had looked up with a quick scowl. “I can’t wait for you. It’s likely
to be pretty cold here. My engine might freeze if I wait.”
Jeff worked as a vegetable peddler and brought supplies to the
isolated mining camps and ranches of the California gold country. The
people who lived in the hills depended on him as their only contact with
civilization. A radiator, cracked by a freeze, could mean disaster.
Realizing this, Mrs. Martin replied, “You could stay up the road
a little way-close to the creek. Would it freeze there?”
Jeff paused a moment. “I guess I could, and I wouldn’t have to
drain my radiator either. I usually stay over by Sheep Ranch in a
protected spot, but why do you need to get to Mantica?”
“Well,” Mrs. Martin replied, “I want to attend some, Week of
Prayer, meetings. There’s no church around here close enough for me to
go to, so I want to meet with the folks down there and attend the
meetings.”
“I don’t know much about prayer meetings, but I guess I can
take you down in the morning.”
“Thank you. I’ll have breakfast ready when you come.”
Cold wasn’t the word for it. Little boys cracked the ice in the
puddles on the way to school the next morning. And besides freezing
puddles, the cold temperature had frozen the water inside the radiator of
Jeff’s old truck. The ice had expanded and cracked the radiator.
This meant that when Jeff started the truck in the morning, the
engine would warm up and melt the ice.
As the ice melted, the water would run out through the crack. The
little bit of water that remained behind would get hot enough to boil and
could boil away completely in a few minutes. More water would have to be
added immediately. If it wasn’t, there would be nothing to cool the
engine. The engine would get hotter and hotter until it would begin to
melt. As
soon as that happened, the engine would stop and no one would every be
able to get it going again.
Jeff’s old truck was boiling like a steam locomotive by the time
he covered the short distance from where he had parked the truck overnight
to Mrs. Martin’s house. He brought it to a jerking halt in the yard.
Throwing open the door, he jumped out, threw up the hood, twisted off the
radiator cap, and released a geyser of white steam into the chilled air.
“Hurry up and bring me a bucket of water! My radiator’s been
ruined by the freeze last night.”
Mrs. Marin came with the bucket and stood by quietly. Jeff began to
pour in a small steady stream.
But as some of the water trickled onto the frozen ground, Mrs.
Martin felt all her hopes of attending the prayer meeting drain away.
Jeff said nothing as he followed Mrs. Martin into her house, where
she had prepared breakfast for him. After eating in silence, Jeff repeated
the process of filling the radiator. He emptied the bucket again and then
slammed the hood. He gave the cold command, “Get in,” thinking to
himself, She might as well come along. She caused the trouble, so she
can share in the worry of making the trip—if we make it.
His disgust turned to a quiet desperation as he closed the door and
backed out of the driveway. Somehow he had to make it to San Andreas,
where he could get the truck repaired. Somehow he had to get the truck
over the twisting narrow roads that led across the three mountain ranges
that lay between here and the first little town, Sheep Ranch.
Houses were few, with only two camps before Sheep Ranch. Towns were
even fewer—if you could call those wide spots in the road towns. He had
to deliver goods at the mining camps and ranches because the people needed
them—they were waiting.
At last there was no more creek, after which would be miles of
deserted mountain country. After climbing another steep hill, Jeff brought
the truck down to the rickety wooden bridge that spanned the last
available water. He stopped just after crossing the bridge and made a
quick descent to the edge of the creek. He filled the bucket with icy
water, then came back up to fill the radiator for the last time. There
would be no more water until just this side of Sheep Ranch.
When Jeff climbed back into the truck, Mrs. Martin noticed a
snowflake on his sleeve and another on his battered hat. Soon there were
many falling through the cold morning air.
Mrs. Martin watched the windshield wipers struggling with the snow
that stuck to the windshield. She began to pray. “Dear
God, it’s my fault, and there’s no more water now. Please fix the
engine.” Her cold lips formed the words slowly as she
went on. “Help Jeff to sell all his goods so
he will feel repaid for this trip. Lord, I want so much to attend those
meetings and see some folks who believe as I do. Help us. Amen!”
The red dirt on the banks beside the road soon turned white as snow
continued to sift down through the gray morning onto the pines, firs, and
monazites. The truck droned on, the only interruptions to the whine of the
engine being the creaking and squeaking of the vehicles frozen joints as
it struck the rough spots on the road.
At Shaw Mine, Jeff stopped just long enough to sell a few supplies,
then moved on toward Sheep Ranch. He seemed to have had forgotten that he
had intended to get water at the mine, although he did mutter something
about the strange fact that the engine didn’t seem to boil any more. At
Sheep Ranch, Jeff left Mrs. Martin shivering in the truck as he went about
his business there.
The next few miles of road were covered with a muddy slush instead
of pavement, and the truck’s pace slowed to a craw. Returning to the cab
after a sale at a ranch house, Jeff again commented on the fact that the
truck didn’t need water. he kept repeating, “That’s funny; it
doesn’t boil anymore.”
After driving off the main road to visit an isolated house, he made
another strange observation. “I’m selling out of everything. I don’t
have any bread or butter left.” Mrs. Martin kept silent about her
prayer. She hardly expected Jeff to understand.
They slipped on through the morning. The snow let up now and then,
but it was still bitterly cold in the truck. As they entered the last 10
miles of road before reaching San Andreas, they sped up a little as
pavement again smoothed the way for them.
“There’s a garage in San Andreas. We’ll be able to check the
water there.” Jeff’s voice cracked the silence of the moment.
Then something else startled Mrs. Martin—that wisp of steam!
Again Jeff failed to notice. The tenseness returned to Mrs. Martin, but
Jeff drove on unmindfully through the falling snow. At last they came to
the curve that led into the narrow main street of San Andreas. Pulling
into a garage Jeff said to the attendant, “I’d better have you check
the water.”
The attendant went mechanically about his work—raised the hood,
removed the cap, peered in, replaced the cap, closed the hood, then came
back to the driver.
“It doesn’t need any water, sir,”
he said. The crack in the radiator had disappeared.
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