When my kids were young, they drove me crazy, and I drove them everywhere else. Years passed, but times didn’t change. When they were teens, I drove the car with a cassette player that ate tapes and they still drove me crazy. When we all needed to be somewhere different, we’d end up one car short. In our family, the likelihood a car would be in a body shop somewhere in the continental United States was six to one. One morning I walked (no one available to take me) to the nearest Rent-a-Wreck; it also served as my repair shop. (I later learned the owners rented our family cars out while waiting for parts.) I desperately needed a car that morning. I pant now just thinking about that brisk two-mile walk.
The manager only had one left. The hot summer sun was unrelenting and the air conditioner in the rental didn’t work. I had no choice. I flinched when I saw the vehicle. My grandson owns larger Hot Wheels than that subcompact. It was green. The color jogged my memory. Immediately I named my temporary mode of transportation Gumby.
I always got stranded with the car least likely to make it home. Another morning, I’d sacrificed after the youngest, nicknamed Cheezy with orange-red hair, effortlessly disassembled an automobile in his first accident. Much to my chagrin, the other son had illegally tinted the windows in the old Blazer. The chrome wheels looked spiffy, but the action stopped there. A persnickety stick shift never found first gear on an incline, and the vintage engine logged an excess of two hundred thousand miles. No one knows exactly how many miles. I once drove thirty, but the odometer turned over twelve. That’s the car I got to drive that day.
The engine had vibrated with a deafening roar. At stop signs, I’d gunned the engine to keep it alive. With gray-tinted windows, I feared I’d be a traffic officer’s prey. When a cop neared, I’d throw my body across the front seat, roll down dark windows, and smile, pretending I had no idea how I got in the classic Blazer.
My teenagers got cited for things I’d never heard of — illegal use of horn, using a cockeyed window spritzer as an attack weapon, and passenger seat belt violation. The younger one followed suit. I think he got stopped for bobbing his head out of sync with the music on the radio. Actually it was for the unperfected E-brake turn.
I didn’t do business with mechanics, I forged long-term friendships. We received a wedding invitation from our mechanic’s daughter just last week. We had also gone to her christening.
Related posts:
- What’s in your purse?
- Let me introduce you to my family
- List for the doctor
- Honeymoon mistake
- Memory lane
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