03/28/2024
Jefferson Weaver
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Jefferson WeaverThere are those who would argue that it was the coolest car I ever owned; I put it

in second place, behind my 1955 Chevrolet, but the BMW was, without a doubt, a

sweet little ride.

Mine had the “big” engine, a four-cylinder with twin carburetors, high-

compression engine, and four-speed manual transmission. It was painted that

unique blue that the Germans loved so much in the early 70s, a blue that actually

wasn’t far from that on my beloved ’55.

As long as I stayed off the accelerator – which I admit was difficult to resist – I

could expect 32 or so miles to the gallon. Sure, there was no air conditioner, and the

sunroof required Visegrips to close. After discovering that the oil filter book at the

auto parts store was decidedly German-phobic, I never again had a problem with

that little pocket rocket. It sounded like a radio-controlled airplane, true, but it rode

like the Concorde and drove like an angel.

I had a constant companion with me in those days, a cute woman with a bright

smile and an infectious laugh. She had a little diamond on her left ring finger, then a

few months later, a gold band to accompany it. I never felt like either was as big as

she deserved.

It’s funny how things change; when Miss Rhonda and I were engaged, our whole

focus was on what would become our house in downtown Wilmington. That little

BMW seemed to fit in our transitional neighborhood (“Transitional” being a polite

term used to describe the nebulous border between the Historic District and the

combat zone). It fit us at the time as well – the little car that now commands prices

similar to a brand-new sedan was just another nice used car back then. Of course, 25

years makes a difference in everything, I reckon.

It was strange, but for a while, we didn’t have a truck in our family; indeed, I

traded my Jeep Cherokee (with a blown motor) as a down payment on the little

BMW. Later, it was with a heavy heart and a lot of consideration that my beloved

1955 drove away to a new home, thus providing the down payment for the house

Rhonda and I called our first. Since Aunt Eleanor willed me the car, and the house

was built around the same year she was born, we think she would have approved.

It’s funny, ain’t it, how things change; our two dogs spent most of their time

outside, whereas now the pack runs in and out. We became immune to the shouts,

sirens, car noises and loud music of downtown, whereas now we count the owl calls,

and listen for the nighthawk’s raucous laughter or the fish splashing in the pond. We

loved the excitement of downtown, and could handle the city. Now, there has to be a

really, really good reason to go more than a few miles from home.

We saw no problem – at least at first – with having neighbors literally 10 feet

across the alley on one side, and three feet away on the other. As much as we love

Meadowsweet Farms, the fact that we can see our neighbors’ homes makes both of

us feel a bit crowded sometimes.

The most exotic thing to ever enter our first home was an orphaned bluejay,

whereas now we have the “bird” and “mammal” bathrooms during baby

rehabilitation season.

It’s funny how things change, and so many others stay the same.

A quarter-century ago, at 4 p.m. on June 6, the sanctuary doors of a little country

church swung open, and my very nervous father-in- law escorted a beautiful young

woman with a big smile down the aisle. He reluctantly gave me her hand, while a

pew filled with extended family I sure didn’t expect to see waved at me.

It’s funny how things change; my hair was short and all dark, nearly black, as was

my beard. Now both are long and gray. As far as I am concerned, hers is still the

golden-brown I knew then, even though she fusses with various products from time

to time.

Her laugh still rings, and her tears are still heartbreaking. She still has the same

reassuring touch when I have just about had it with the world in general. She still

has the instinctive ability to find a hole and fill it, whether that hole is a crying child

at a car wreck, a hungry baby critter, or a lonely grandmother. She is still far and

away a cook on par with my mother, whom she loved as her own, even when Miss

Lois was deeply enmeshed in the “mean” part of dementia.

I know she still has my back, as she did when we guarded our home during a street

party that turned into a riot in our “transitional” neighborhood – but the difference

is that now she has her own weapons, and if it ever comes down to it, she is a much

better shot.

She’s still the same woman who will cross four lanes of traffic to check on a stray

dog, and will stop four lanes to move a turtle. She’ll stay awake for hours, even days,

dripping formula into the mouth of a hairless baby critter, only taking breaks on the

hour when it’s time to hand-feed baby birds.

She’s still the same woman who loves old horror and sci-fi movies, laughing at

black and white comedies, discovering new movies or books or recipes, dressing up

just because she’s getting out of the country and into town for a little while, country

stores, and fishing. She is still the same woman who is reluctant to get out of bed in

the morning, although she is much better than when we were younger. She’ll never

enjoy mornings like I do, but that’s okay, because without her, my mornings

wouldn’t be nearly as bright.

Our pastor the other day preached a sermon wherein he noted that God designed

Eve to be Adam’s helper. Even though Adam had dominion over all the other

creations, there wasn’t a one of them that could assuage Adam’s loneliness. Man and

woman were made for each other, to love and be loved, to help and be helped, to

comfort and be comforted. They were made to complement each other, and make

each other whole.

I absolutely concur with Brother’s Kincy’s words; I know, when I am without my

bride, that there is a piece of me missing.

A lot of things have changed since that scorching June afternoon when I had dark

hair and drove a cool car, but thankfully, the woman I married is still the same in so

many ways, and even better in the few that could be improved.

Happy anniversary, my beloved Miss Rhonda. I love you, and let’s try for another

25.

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