Last week my wife’s car—a middle-aged Mercedes station wagon with more miles on it than the Starship Enterprise—announced its need for attention by expelling a pool of viscous, reddish fluid onto the carport floor. This was ominous. The car was already ten years old when it came to us, and despite having been bought sight unseen from a distant city for a suspiciously low price, it has served us very well. I love it because it’s Teutonically quiet and solid and has seats like German La-Z-Boys. The children adore it for its pop-up, rearward-facing jumpseat, from which they can make faces at the occupants of vehicles behind them. And their mother loves it because when the kids are sitting back there all the noise they make is directed toward the rear.
The car has been the family’s primary mode of transport for years, and despite having an erratic electrical system, unintelligible heater controls, and an interior that, after 150,000 miles with small children aboard, looks like a portable preschool, it has never let us down. Still, since the Mercedes is getting up in years and has developed various squeaks, rattles, and groans of late, the pool of mystery fluid struck fear into my heart because, as anyone who has owned an older European car knows, when something really goes wrong…things get expensive. Parts are hard to come by, independent shops are reluctant to fool with them, and to take the thing to a Mercedes specialist or—perish the thought—the dealership would be to court financial ruin.
Having tried without success to find a reasonably priced auto repair shop run by mechanics fluent in the arcane dialect of European car maintenance for some time, we had been starting to think that we might have to let the car go in favor of something cheaper to maintain. We were sure the right shop was out there somewhere…if only we could find it.
Which is how, on the strength of a recommendation, I found myself pulling into the forecourt of Elam’s Auto Service in Jackson, Louisiana. Sometimes examples of what makes small town life special turn up in unexpected places. American folklore is littered with examples of those institutions where everyone knows your name—where the warm embrace of community spirit reaches out and grabs you the moment the door creaks open. In books and movies and on Prairie Home Companion these increasingly apocryphal establishments are usually cafés or diners. Sometimes they might be a beauty salon or a feed ‘n seed. But an auto shop? I confess that as I swung into the lot, I didn’t feel much optimism. There were no other Mercedes visible, and I was parked between a Monte Carlo with multiple color body panels and a Ford tractor that was thirty years old if it was a day. And besides, you try pulling into an auto repair shop in a small town with a foreign car and a funny accent, expecting to be taken seriously. But my first impression couldn’t have been more wrong. Within five minutes I was in an easy chair with a cup of coffee in my hand, a cat on my lap, and a brand new friend in the person of Baby Elam—the twinkle-eyed matriarch of Elam’s Auto Repair. Baby and her husband, David, have owned Elam’s for decades, and they run their business with a combination of sure-handed expertise, enthusiasm, and genuine interest in the wellbeing of their customers that seems more in keeping with a doctor’s office than an auto shop. Baby knows each client by name, every car inside-out, loves every animal on God’s green earth, and treats each person who enters her store with equal good humor, attention, and respect regardless of race, color, or station in life. Before my coffee was half gone I had been introduced to all the mechanics, befriended by the two adopted dogs who follow their mistress everywhere, and learned that dialysis wasn’t so bad as long as you remembered to take your medicine. In minutes I had my own phone out to show Baby photos of our kids and dogs. After a thoroughly pleasant hour David reappeared, having diagnosed not only the fluid leak, but also the source of all the other squeaks, rattles, and groans, and determined that they were all within his power to fix. In the meantime I had talked about country living, stray dogs, kidney transplants, and eighties-vintage diesel Peugeots. I had watched a dozen other customers leave with their spirits lifted and smiles on their faces, and decided I was never taking our car anyplace else. I left with a repair estimate that I could live with and my faith in human nature and the value of community renewed.
Corporate America cannot reproduce this. And Lord knows the results aren’t pretty when it tries. Elam’s is just a car repair shop, but it repairs more than just cars. True community spirit—that strange force that binds people to people and makes a place into your place, is hard to come by. But you know it when you find it. And when you do, you’d best not let it go.
—James Fox-Smith, publisher james@countryroadsmag.com
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