Gramps was almost 96 when he died eight years ago. He had been a mechanic for most of his life, and for most of his career, he had the same floor jack. When Gram died a year and a half ago, we had to sort through the household stuff so the house could be sold. In the garage was the old jack which hadn't worked in years. Nobody wanted it, so I brought it home, although at the time, I didn't know why. About a month and a half ago, it crossed my mind that if I could get it working, it would make a good birthday gift for Matt, who idolized his grandfather, and does a lot of his own mechanic work.
I called our friend Eric who has connections with all sorts of mechanical people. He put me in touch with a gentleman down in Pleasantville, PA, about an hour and a half from here. When I called him, he declined to fix it, saying, "People don't want to pay the money. They can buy a cheap Chinese jack from Harborfreight for half of what it costs to repair one of these." I told him my story, and he told me to send him some photos of it. I did, and about ten minutes later I get an excited call from him telling me what kind of jack it is, and that he would be happy to fix it. "It's the Cadillac of jacks," he told me, unawares that Gramps hated anything GM, and would be insulted by such a remark. He told me how to disassemble it so I could bring just the hydraulic cylinder. I took it down about a month ago.
This guy called me probably a dozen times to let me know of his progress on the jack, finally letting me know about a week ago that it was ready, but that he wanted to set it out overnight to make sure it didn't leak. It did, slightly, so another few days went by while he tweaked things a bit. Yesterday I drove the bike down to pick up the cylinder, then degreased the frame; and today I reassembled it. It works like a champ. I called him to let him know how pleased I was with it, which apparently doesn't happen often. He told me that when his secretary told him I was on the line, he thought something was wrong because no one ever calls to say thank you. He can't say that anymore.
This afternoon, I took it over to Matt, who loves it mostly because it had belonged to Gramps. I could have bought two Harborfreight jacks for what the repair cost, but it wouldn't have meant nearly as much. Stuff is just stuff, but when stuff is symbolic of relationships cherished, that stuff becomes almost sacramental. Matt still has Gramps' jacket and cap hanging on a peg in his dining room, so he is just the man to have Gramps' jack, and I am grateful to be at this place in life where I have the resources to bless him in this way. Earthshaking? No. Life-significant? Only to Matt, but that's enough for me.
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