Previous Challenge Entry (Level 4 – Masters)
Topic: Dumbfounded (02/20/25)
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TITLE: Whack and a Prayer | Previous Challenge Entry
By Corinne Smelker
02/27/25 -
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Sam stared at the dashboard like it might apologize. He tried again. Still nothing. “Well, ain’t that a peach,” he muttered, popping the hood. He wasn’t a mechanic, but he knew enough to poke around and feel useful. Battery cables? Tight. Oil? Fine. He scratched his head, the thermos steaming uselessly on the roof of the truck.
That’s when he heard it—a faint tap-tap-tap from down the street. He squinted past the row of modest houses, their porches still sleepy under the gray dawn. There, hobbling toward him, was Mrs. Delaney, the widow from three doors down. She was eighty if she was a day, her white hair pulled into a bun so tight it looked like it was holding her together. In one hand, she gripped a cane; in the other, a hammer.
“Morning, Samuel!” she called, her voice chirpy as a bird. “Saw you out here fiddling. Truck giving you grief?”
“Uh, yeah,” Sam said, still processing the sight of her. “Won’t start. You, uh… heading somewhere with that hammer?”
“Oh, this?” She waved it like it was a feather duster. “Just fixing a loose board on my porch. Keeps tripping me up. But I reckon I can take a look at your engine first.”
Sam blinked. “You? My engine?”
“Don’t look so shocked, boy. My husband—God rest him—taught me a thing or two. Fifty years with a gearhead, you pick up tricks.” She tapped her cane on the ground, then leaned over the hood like it was a Sunday crossword. “Let’s see now…”
He watched, half-amused, half-baffled, as she poked at wires and muttered to herself. She asked him to turn the key again—still nothing. Then, with a little “aha,” she reached down, hammer in hand, and gave something a sharp whack. “Try it now,” she said, stepping back.
Sam slid into the driver’s seat, expecting another dead click. Instead, the engine roared to life, steady as a hymn. He sat there, hands on the wheel, staring at the gauges like they’d just confessed a secret. Mrs. Delaney dusted her hands on her apron and grinned. “Starter solenoid’s sticky. Little tap wakes it up. Should get you to work, but don’t dawdle fixing it proper.”
He climbed out, thermos forgotten, and looked at her—really looked. She was tiny, frail even, but there she stood, hammer dangling like it was nothing. “Mrs. Delaney, I… how’d you even know?”
She chuckled, eyes crinkling. “Folks think old means done. But the good Lord don’t waste a day on you, Samuel. Keeps you learning, keeps you going.” She turned to hobble back home, calling over her shoulder, “Drop by later—I’ll have cookies!”
Sam watched her go, engine humming behind him. He shook his head, a slow grin spreading. The day felt brighter, somehow, like the sun had decided to show up early. He grabbed his thermos, climbed in, and drove off, still marveling at the little widow with the hammer who’d just turned his morning upside down.
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