The Classics

Chicken Soup for the Soul: All in the Family

BY: Carol Genengels

One man's trash is another man's treasure.
~English Proverb

As a mother, I've learned that having grown sons often demands long suffering. Their toys aren't picked up as easily as their Matchbox cars once were. Take Ryan's motorcycle, for instance. Though he hadn't ridden it in years, the bike held a place of honor in the blackberry bushes. "I'm gonna restore it someday, Mom. I can't get rid of it!" My youngest child knew he could usually wrap me around his little finger. As a teen, he'd once accused me of child abuse for buying fat-free ice cream. When he drove off to college in a Toyota pick-up, he abandoned his first love -- a 1977 Camaro -- next to his brother's red 1967 Firebird and a brown 1979 Datsun with no windows. Next to the cars, a sixteen-foot boat and trailer languished in the sun.

Home for summer break, Ryan was in the backyard tenderly spreading gobs of Bondo over the rust spots on his Camaro. "Listen, Ryan," I said lightly, "since you drive the truck now, why not sell the Camaro?"

"Sell the Camaro?!" Ryan gasped as if I'd asked him to cut off his foot. His expression of sheer terror let me know that I'd have to tread carefully. He continued, "When I get it all fixed up, it will be worth a lot more than I paid for it. It'll be a classic someday!"

"I can hardly wait," I muttered before returning to the house to consider my next tactics.

Number-one son, Shawn, the owner of the Firebird and Datsun, came over to work on a marine engine. I found him under the sundeck, muscles rippling as he hoisted an outboard motor into a barrel of fresh water. I sauntered over: "Say, Shawn, have you considered selling that Firebird? You don't drive it anymore." Shawn wiped grimy hands on his jeans. His blue eyes stared as though I'd said something ridiculous. "Mom, that car has sentimental value. I bought that in the Navy, remember? It took me ages to pay that thing off. Besides, it's almost a classic!"

"Well, what about the Datsun?" I persisted.

"Aw, Mom, nobody will buy that thing the way it is. New windows will cost more than it's worth."

I sighed and went back in the house. I recalled the day that Shawn parked the Datsun at the top of the road with a "For Sale" sign. In the middle of the night, vandals broke out all the windows. The next day, Shawn sadly drove it down the driveway and parked it next to his Firebird.

My husband, Ted, came up from the basement. "Carol, have you seen my torque wrench?"

"I wouldn't know a torque wrench if I stumbled over one. Try the backyard."

"Those guys never put anything away," he mumbled.

"Ted, our backyard looks like a junkyard," I said, seizing the opportunity to complain.

"What's wrong with it?"

"It's all those cars! Shawn's Firebird, the Datsun, that junky boat and trailer nobody uses, and Ryan's Camaro and truck."

"There's nothing wrong with Ryan's truck."

"That's not the point! With our cars, and all their junkers, our place looks like a used car lot in a bad part of town! This is a nice neighborhood, or at least it used to be!"

"I would like to get rid of that Datsun," Ted admitted. "It's a shame about those windows."

As the summer progressed, I grew to hate those cars. I prayed that God would spur my boys to car-selling action, or maybe consume the cars in a freak fireball. Everyone who entered the yard was asked the same question: "Do you know anyone who wants an old Datsun with no windows?" No one jumped at my offer.

One day, I got tough. "Shawn, it's almost wintertime. You'd better do something about that Datsun, and soon!"

"Okay, Mom, I promise I'll do something tomorrow."

When I came home from work the next day, the Datsun was draped with blue tarps. "Aughhhhhhhhhh!"

By spring, the tarps had blown off, and mushrooms were sprouting in the back seat. "Please, Lord," I prayed. "Send someone to take this wreck away."

Meanwhile, Ted was asked to consider running for president of the small mission congregation we attended. He prayed about the matter, but heard nothing. Pastor Tim said he needed an answer by the following Sunday. All week, Ted wrestled with his decision. By Saturday afternoon, he was still undecided. "You'd better let Pastor Tim know your answer pretty soon," I said.

Ted sighed. "I just don't know."

"Hey, why don't we put out a fleece?" I suggested.

Ted frowned. "What kind of a fleece?"

"You know, something so out of the ordinary that if it happens, you'll know for sure that you're supposed to serve as president. Hey, I've got an idea. Let's tell God that if somebody walks down our driveway tonight and buys that old Datsun, then you'll know."

Ted laughed. "I guess we're safe on that one!"

"I'm serious. Let's pray."

About 9:30 that evening, Ted said, "I'd better call the pastor. I hate to let him down, but..."

Just then, the doorbell rang. Our teenage neighbor, Alex, and a friend of his greeted us. "Hi, Mrs. Genengels." He nodded politely. "Mr. Genengels."

"Hi, Alex, what's up?"

"Well, my friend here was wondering if you'd take fifty bucks for that Datsun."

We doubled over.

"What's so funny?" Alex asked.

"Are you sure you want that car?" Ted said.

His friend answered, "Yeah, it's perfect for the demolition derby. I've had my eye on it for awhile."

"You've got yourself a deal," Ted said before excusing himself. "I have to go call someone."

Ted served as congregational president for two years. Eventually, all the "classics" found new homes, and we got our yard back. Through it all, I've discovered that being the mother of grown sons has its own special challenges, but I wouldn't have it any other way.

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