Touch Up

I had “borrowed” Granddaddy’s truck, a 1974 Chevrolet, gold and white with chrome, and gone back into the river swamp for a drive. I always wrapped these trips in something necessary, so I had a single bale of hay in the back. I careened down the two path, sliding around the corners and pulling in the accelerator at just the right moment. I was nearly at the spot where the road took a steep downgrade into the swamp, when I looked up and saw a tree lying across the road. I pulled the wheel to the right, and shot out into the woods. One thing to remember is that I was nine years old at the time, and not really used to bad things happening. I freaked, literally, and pushed down on the gas pedal. The truck barreled through the woods, creaking and bouncing as it went. I finally popped out on the other side of the wooded area and narrowly missed taking out a fence. I stepped on the brake, and sat in the seat breathing like I had carried the truck instead of driven it.
I turned off the ignition, stepped out, and looked at the truck. The paint had long, white scratches down each side where I had brushed past trees on my journey through the woods. One mirror was bent inward, looking back at the door. I was in shock. I couldn’t turn this thing back in to Granddaddy in this kind of shape. My mind cast around for help. Then I remembered that Grandmama was a painter. She had every color known to man, and a few she had made up all by herself. I would “touch up” the truck, and no one would ever have to know.
I drove slowly back to the barn where the truck was always parked. I pulled carefully into the assigned spot, and turned it off. I looked over at the house. What luck! They had left to go to town, and weren’t back yet. I eased into the back door and went into Grandmama’s painting room. My young eyes decided on a color, and, taking a paint cloth back out to the truck with a few brushes, proceeded to “fix” the truck.
It was a sight, dabbing paint along the side, covering the shameful white scratches with golden glowing paint. It probably would have looked better if I had remembered that paint does not always dry the same color as it is applied. I rubbed the truck down with a cloth, and was quite satisfied with the result. I had overcome a terrible experience, and no one would find the evidence of my inexperience. I put away the paint, brushes, and clothes, and went home to play in the backyard.
I heard the phone ringing in the kitchen, and mama answering. My presence was requested down the road. I walked slowly down the dirt road between our houses, looking ahead to see Granddaddy’s truck parked in the front yard. It was horrible. The paint had dried to a white, chalky yellow. The truck looked as if someone had tried to do a camouflage number and failed miserably. Granddaddy stood out by the truck, looking over the damage. Shame, regret, scalding embarrassment, all roared over me. I could see down the road to my Aunt Leta’s house. Everyone was on the porch, and I just knew I was going to get it in front of them, including my cousin, Troy, who would never let me forget about it.
I walked up to Granddaddy, looking at the ground.

“Sonny Boy, did you paint my truck?” he asked quietly.

“Yes Sir” I replied, low but clear.

“How did my truck come to need a paint job?” he said.

“I ran off the road into the woods and scratched your paint. I was afraid I would get into trouble, so I fixed it.” I waited to see how bad the punishment would be, all for the benefit of the relatives across the road.

“Do me a favor” he said quietly. “Go get the hose and help me wash my truck.”

I looked up into his twinkling blue eyes. They weren’t angry or disappointed, but laughing. I got the hose, and we washed off the truck, the gold paint lingering in most of the scratches. When we finished, he said “Tell Grandmama we’re going into town.” I ran inside and let her know, then we got into the truck and he took us into Nashville. He drove over to a garage out by the tractor place. A big, greasy man that owed him a favor looked at the truck, laughed fit to bust, and took the keys. We walked over to the tractor place to dream for about an hour. When we came back, I couldn’t believe it. The truck looked as good as new, scratches touched up and buffed out.
As we drove back to the house, he looked over at me and said,
“Thank you for telling me the truth. Always stick to that and you’ll find out things aren’t nearly so bad as you might think.”

“Yes Sir” I replied.

“And how ‘bout lets keep this between us?” he said with a gold, laced smile.

“Yes Sir!” I said in disbelief.

The truck was fixed. The scratches gone. The lesson in Grace and Mercy will never be lost.