The storms seem to have passed, and there are spurts of sunshine on a pleasant Virginia day. It would have been Dad’s 97th birthday today. Maybe better phrased, it is still his birthday, and I remember it that way. I had some plan to continue the story of Great Great Uncle Pat’s wild ride through the chaos of war in his new country, but things took a sudden turn yesterday afternoon that swept other issues away. Except trust in the country, of course.

You will remember that I finally decided to sell the legendary hot-rod 1991 Syclone truck. It had been lingering with me for a couple years, long after a minor restoration to honor the first owner, our incredible Uncle Dick. I mentioned a while back that sometimes the hot rod has to be replaced by a walker, and there is still a lot of joy for the turbo-charged four wheel drive fun machine.

Just not for me. I shared the photos I compiled for a trial auction at BarnFinder.com, a curious web site that makes a living brokering deals for people- well, men, though I am not sure that is the proper terminology these days- who lie classic cars. I followed them for a few months, looking at images of cars fifty or sixty years old in condition to drive away, or in need of frame-off restoration. The patina left on the vehicles was part of the razzmatazz that drove the on-line bidding, and over time I realized that was just how the truck looked, resting quietly in the barn with a thick layer of of detritus from the ceiling covering the premium automotive paint that I knew was still shiny and good underneath. The buyer is going to have to trust me on that.

I also knew I wasn’t going to wash it, and get it started, and turn it over to my trusted country mechanic a few miles away, and paying another few thousand dollars to replace hoses and belts in order to let it sit and accumulate dust again wasn’t fair. Nor was the monthly insurance to make in safe, sitting in th garage

There was probably someone out there in cyberland who is looking for just such a challenge. I drafted some copy. and took some pictures and engaged Josh at BarnFinders to run an auction.

My sons were helpful. Neither is in a position to take on what is arguably an expensive luxury at the moment, but were interested in how selling antique performance vehicles worked. After research, they informed me the on-line market was somewhere between fifteen and twenty-five grand. I trust their research, and boldly directed Josh to set the reserve price for the auction at twenty grand. He kindly sent back a note recommending fifteen thousand as something more reasonable. Naturally I took the advice, and the pictures of the truck went up on the auction site for a run of one week.

I followed with moderate interest. The first bid was about eight hundred, obviously rom someone hoping to scam an elderly owner into a loss-leader sale. That caught me up short, and set my expectations low. Activity over the next few days was gratifying, and with only a day to go, the bid sat at $22,000. I had hoped for some flurry at the end, but the last bid was unchallenged, and passed to a person in Pennsylvania. If I was still drinking I would have had a tall one, since I thought the price was fair, and all I had left to deal with was a person I didn’t know in another state to arrange pickup and payment.

Blah blah. The next part required actual interaction, truck-drivers from New York, a hauling concern engaged by the successful, a search for the title and appropriate bill of sale, VIN numbers, mileage and the other little things that go along with saying farewell to a project eighteen years in the making that would equal the amount of cash I had thrown into it.

So far there have been some surprises. I have seen a picture of a certified check for $22,000, but do not actually have it in hand to determine if it is negotiable. The transaction was supposed to happen with truck pick up this coming Monday, but that turned into yesterday based on requirements of the shipping concern. I had many conversations with the buyer about details, and filled out the appropriate forms and found as many records as possible in the mounds of paperwork that followed work done over thirty years.

There were just a couple challenges. The battery would still turn over the mighty engine, but the age of the fuel or a filter or something did not enable it to start. The removal truck was going to be at the Farm late Friday, but for some reason had no winch, leaving the small issue of levitating the sleeping Syclone out of the garage, up the long hill of the tree-covered gravel drive and effortlessly being pushed up the ramp of the trailer mostly blocking the farm lane out front.

The anxiety I would have felt all weekend was abolished. Papers flew everywhere, I tried to start the truck again to no avail, and just as the dinner hour approached, a thin man appeared, saying he was here to pick up the truck. I did the country thing here- imagine the magic bubbles- and the Russians arrived at the behest of a frantic phone call, chains were strung from from to hitch, and the truck was dragged happily up the hill. A neighbor I did not know was summoned by Matt, and in moments a shiny F-150 track appeared and vaulted the Syclone onto the trailer. My work, through the power of trusting the unknown, was effortlessly complete.

That is the thing about the country. If you need help, people are willing to give it, with the understanding that you will do it too when the time comes.

That is how she looked as she left my life and embarked on another one. She did not show up where she was supposed to in Pennsylvania at eleven o’clock last night, more frantic phone calls this morning, and now. Silence.

I assume that means action complete. Of course, there are a few thousand dollars floating around somewhere, but if there are more adventures in my part of this tale, I will let you know. I think Uncle Dick would have enjoyed the process. He understood a lot about trust.

In the country, of course.

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