A Tribute to James -- Part Two (of Three)

Christmas was fast approaching ... and it was going to be another lean one. Getting moved, renting a new (over-priced) house and buying the new Blazer had pretty much put me right back in the poor house. Then again, I've spent the majority of my life in the poor house, so I certainly wasn't worried. Better yet, I did have enough cash stashed away to make the trip up to Lynchburg to spend Christmas with my youngest, Ty. So it didn't matter that I wouldn't receive any gifts this year. It didn't matter that I had no Christmas decorations. All that mattered was that I had a vehicle that should (in theory, at least) get me the 280 miles I needed to travel to see my little one.

I knew I had a less-than-honest gas gauge, but figured I would just fill-up more often than might be necessary. No biggie. Other than a minor oil leak (that I couldn't pinpoint), there was nothing else mechanically wrong with my new red Blazer. Or so I thought.

Having left Wilmington at about 6:30pm (it was already long past sundown) I would make another discovery regarding my new form of transportation: once I got up to about 45 mph, the speedometer stopped working. And by "stopped working," I mean that the needle would drop back down to zero even though I was hauling ass on the Interstate. So, without having a clue as to how fast I was going, I tried to keep pace with the other cars on the road and made the assumption that so long as I wasn't passing many people, the odds were I wasn't speeding.

I checked into a cheap motel in Lynchburg a little after midnight, grateful that my new ride had made the trip. I would hit the sack, get some sleep, get up bright and early the next frosty morning and go see my son. It was going to be a good Christmas!

In the morning, I walked out to the parking lot and noticed a HUGE puddle of oil under the Blazer. "Well, my minor oil leak looks like it got a little more major." Undeterred, I put a quart of oil in and drove off to get my boy and have a little breakfast. Ty was excited when his father pulled up in his "brand new Jeep." No ... technically it wasn't anywhere close to brand new, and no, it wasn't a Jeep. But it looked like one. And it had been washed the day before, so it was just as shiny as anything brand new.

"What's he called?" Ty asked me.

"Who?"

He smirked at me from the backseat and, looking in the rearview mirror, I could see him roll his eyes.

"Your Jeep."

"I don't know. I hadn't thought of a name yet. What do you think we should call him?"

Without hesitation he replied, "James. 'Cause he's really spendid!"

Now, if you're not familiar with Thomas the Tank Engine, you might not get the reference. But being the good Dad (or at least, as good of a Dad as I can be) I caught on. We decided to name him after the red diesel engine from the Railway Series of books. From that moment on, his name was James. Or as Ty and I lovingly called him, "Jamesy-James."