I didn’t get much sleep last Friday night. Like a child on Christmas Eve, I was too excited about a shiny new toy I was hoping to get the next morning. It’s been said that the difference between men and boys is the size of their toys, and I have found this to be absolutely true. Instead of Hot Wheels or Matchbox cars, the vehicles I play with nowadays are indeed much bigger, especially the gorgeous 1969 Chevrolet Impala I was looking forward to taking possession of last Saturday morning.
When I was a kid playing with diecast cars in the 1980s, The A-Team was a hugely popular television show. I even had an Ertl brand replica of the iconic A-Team van. In every episode, The A-Team’s leader, Hannibal Smith, could be counted on to say, “I love it when a plan comes together”. I am confident that Hannibal would have recited that very line had he witnessed how beautifully my plan for Saturday had come together.
The first part of my plan involved raising some funds and clearing a parking space in my garage. I decided to sell my 1965 Oldsmobile 442, despite only owning it for six short months. I realized that as much as I enjoyed driving it, I never developed an emotional attachment to the old muscle car. Late Thursday night, just before midnight, I listed it for sale on Facebook Marketplace. At approximately 2:00 the next afternoon, I waved goodbye to an old acquaintance as he drove away with the 442 on his flatbed trailer. In less than fifteen hours I was contacted by nine potential buyers and turned down two trade opportunities before accepting the cash offer that sent the 442 to its new home.
Having raised the exact amount of money I needed to purchase the Impala, the rest of the afternoon was a whirlwind of activity. First, I made an appointment with the seller to meet at 11:00 Saturday morning in Independence, Missouri, to look the Impala over. If I was satisfied with the car, I would hand the man the money from the 442 and then drive north to nearby Liberty where Bethany’s sister Charla and her family live. Bethany, Truman, and Tiana would enjoy an afternoon with the cousins and in-laws while I made my new toy ready for the long drive back to Ashland.
The seller had told me that the car had not been driven much in recent years and would need some things done to it in order to be roadworthy again. So, I scheduled an appointment at a Liberty tire shop to swap out the old wheels and tires for a new set. Then I would drive just across the street and get the oil changed, the radiator flushed and filled, and other fluids topped-off at a quick lube place that my brother-in-law Doug recommended.
It was a beautiful plan. Everything was falling into place perfectly. By the time my head hit the pillow Friday night, there was nothing left to think about except how happy I would be driving my new Impala home the next day.
After nearly two hours on the road, we were just fifteen minutes away from our prearranged meeting place on Saturday morning when the seller called to tell me he couldn’t make our rendezvous. He made several excuses and apologies and asked if I could just sit tight at my in-laws for a while until he could get away and meet us. I asked how long he thought he might be, and he said SEVEN HOURS.
You can imagine my dismay. I informed the gentleman that I could not wait that long. I gave him a very generous deadline of 3:00pm, hoping that would still give me enough time to get the new wheels and tires mounted and the fluids changed before those businesses closed for the rest of the weekend. The seller said he’d call me by 2:30 to let me know if he could make it or not. I never heard another word from him the rest of the day.
As it turned out, I had a wonderful time visiting with my in-laws and nieces and nephew that afternoon. We hadn’t all been together for quite some time, and it was great to catch-up. By the time we headed home, I wasn’t even mad about the car. It simply wasn’t meant to be.
I did receive a text message from the Impala’s owner with another feeble apology Sunday morning. He said to let him know if I was still interested in buying the car. I started to formulate several snarky replies, including “You can’t be serious” and “Are you on crack?”, but I decided that if I didn’t have anything nice to text, then I shouldn’t text anything at all.
Another classic car will come along. Maybe two. Half the fun of collecting old hot rods is the chase. In the meantime, I still have my rusty but trusty ’71 Chevy truck and my beautiful family to keep me occupied, and I’m grateful for both.
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