The Reality of Pitted Chrome

I tried to clean the chrome steering column last night.  Here is what I'm talking about...

Steering column, as removed from the car.
Uncle Packard took one look and said "Bad news...  That is supposed to be chrome!"

Disassembly was pretty easy.  Now the hard part...

Cleaning old chrome reminds me of an important truth.  Reality has texture.  It has imperfections. Whatever I strive for in my future, observe about my present, or remember about my past, it simply is not reality if it doesn't have texture.  That fractal detail never shows up in my dreams... it is just too difficult, inconvenient, or unpleasant for me to imagine on my own.  I'm beginning to believe that only God has the tenacity and patience to imagine all that detail.

Chrome is a good example of this.  Just imagine a chrome bumper... mirror smooth, right? No one takes the effort to imagine chrome bumpers with imperfections, rust, or pits.  It's much easier and more pleasant to imagine a shiny new smooth chrome bumper.  Even if for some reason I'm forced to think about imperfect reality, I tend to visualize perfect chrome, and then an overlaying haze or patina... a veil that can be easily ignored or mentally wiped away.

The reality of chrome is that a myriad of microscopic pinholes eventually wear through the plating,  allowing water to get through to the metal underneath.  Corrosion byproducts then leech out onto the previously smooth surface, infesting it with an unimaginably detailed texture.  On plated steel surfaces, like bumpers, the red-brown rash of rust can sometimes be wiped away using chemicals or bronze wool.  

This machined steel locknut to allows the steering wheel to slide in and out about 3 inches.  The rust is like a fuzz all over it.

20 minutes with bronze wool, and it's shiny.  Look closer, and you'll see that it's pitted.

But the reality of the pinholes remain, and the rust will soon return.  On plated zinc-based castings, the corrosion under the pinholes has a more dramatic effect... the oxidized metal under the plating expands and lifts up, forming a plethora of tiny chrome-covered bumps, and creating a pox or acne over the entire surface that cannot be removed by polishing.  Given time, these bumps grow and cause the plating to flake off, exposing the powdery white oxide underneath.

The surround for the dash is pot metal (zinc).  After bronze wool, it still has severe acne.

The top of the steering column.  Also made shiny, but pitted.

I remember seeing pitted chrome before, when I was a boy.  I found it slightly distressing when door handles and window knobs in our family car developed that patina, and the plating started to flake off.  I was more distressed when broken springs started poking through the seat covers, and we had to put old blankets on the seats to literally save our behinds.  We had a lot of old things in my house.  Some of them still worked, but most of them were broken, and stayed that way.  I'm familiar with corrosion, and neglect... and the texture of reality.  My parents rarely saw it... instead, they saw hidden treasure, were blinded by possibility, never fully measuring the cost... and forgetting that time ravages everything.  Meanwhile, my siblings and I managed... but largely on our own.  It took years for me to realize that this kind of life wasn't normal, wasn't right.

The texture of my reality hit me hard today.  It's not that my chrome is unpleasant, it's just not what I'd like it to be.  Not what I imagined it should be.  I'm remembering how mean I was to my brother growing up, and how my inner rage that frequently intruded into my relationships.  The arrogance that came from living in my own fantasy, and thinking far too much of myself.  The opportunities missed, and the advantages taken, the hurt I caused.  I think of my own young boys, needing a father's encouragement, and receiving the criticism of an impatient man... I see my own reflection in that imperfect chrome.

I am not a bad person, but my chrome is tarnished.  It can be polished, but it is pitted.  In some cases, it is like a pot-metal casting, and cannot be restored.  I will have that patina, that character defect, the rest of my life.

I'm facing the fact that this car, like my own life, will never be a award-winning showpiece.  It will always have some pitted chrome, some inner ugliness, some parts that just aren't right.  I don't always get to choose which parts these are.  I don't have the means to rebuild everything that's wrong with the car, nor do I really want to.  Somewhere in the emotional space between my unrealistic dream for this car and the current, textured reality lies  hopeful intentionality.

My task is to learn to live in that tension, and to persevere.