Wednesday evening, I got a text broadcast from the General indicating Craig’s truck had broken down somewhere in Alabama. At the time she sent the text, they had waited an hour and a half for a tow truck. I may have read too much between the lines, but she seemed a little concerned. I could almost hear dueling banjos in the background.
Did I mention that waiting patiently is not one of my spiritual gifts? Several years ago when the General and I were commuting from Midland to Austin every weekend, I inadvertently locked the keys in the car when we stopped at a convenience store in Eden. As I recall, it took almost forever for a locksmith to come from San Angelo to open our door. We waited long enough that I was very glad to see him when he finally arrived.
I can only recall one time that I had a car that actually broke down on the side of the road. It was in 1968 shortly after the General and I got married. We had a 1967 VW at the time. I remember that the General’s folks came and picked us up. I do remember the repair bill was in the neighborhood of $350.00. That seems like pocket change today, but in 1968, it felt like a significant sum.
My first inclination when I received Treva’s text was to intervene in some way. Did I mention it is a long way from Houston to Alabama? The logistics didn’t work for me to join them in their highway extravaganza retreat. For one thing, I know nothing about automotive repair. My dad was a pretty good shade tree mechanic, but that part of his DNA didn’t filter into the threshold of my experience.
In the late 1980s, I bought a used GMC pickup from a neighbor. About a year later, it began to run a little rough. (I don’t know what that means, but you get the drift. Something wasn’t right). I finally figured out that it had something to do with the fuel pump. It needed to be replaced.
Why not do that myself? I stopped by Sears and bought a starter set of Craftsman tools. That is the brand of tools my dad used, I might as well follow in his footsteps. Actually the thought of doing the work myself was inviting. At some level it seemed like a long awaited rite of passage. This was before the days of YouTube where you could find a “show and tell video” of how to do to change the fuel pump.
Miracle of miracles, I actually successfully replaced the fuel pump. I was so proud! Did I mention the truck still ran a little rough? (I still don’t know what that means, but you get the drift. Something wasn’t right).
The following weekend, the General’s aunt and uncle came for a visit. Her uncle was pretty resourceful. His automotive assessment skills were superior to mine. The solution was simple. He would help me overhaul the carburetor. What did I have to lose? The task seemed daunting, but the General’s uncle said there was nothing to it. He was convinced that we could “Git-R-Done.”
My wife’s uncle was right. We did “Git-R-Done.” Did I mention there was no appreciable difference related to resolving the problem of the truck running a little rough? The following week, I took the truck to the Central Garage in Dripping Springs. I don’t remember all of the specifics, but the solution had some relationship to the need to replace the gas cap.
I still have the Craftsman tools I bought in the 1980s. They are in “like new” condition. Changing the fuel pump on my own and assisting in overhauling the carburetor were a coming of age, rite of passage for me. I emerged from that experience with the resolve that I also had a right never to do it again. To date, I have exercised that right.
This is superfluous to the story, but the other day I saw a metallic lime green vehicle. I saw it during daylight hours, but I’m convinced that it could glow in the dark. My truck was burnt orange with a metallic sheen to it. It probably carried the same level of intensity as the lime green vehicle, but I always favored orange sherbet over lime.
For me to drive to Alabama to assist Craig and the General made no sense. I had no automotive knowledge that could help. In addition, I wouldn’t have added a sense of calm to the mix. The General and Craig both have the same temperament. Neither gets particularly rattled.
Earlier today as I thought about the General and Craig’s plight of being stranded in a sleepy little town in Alabama, I thought of a line from Hank William’s song, “I’m So Lonesome I Could Cry.”
Put me in a hotel room in the middle of Nowhere, America without transportation and at the mercy of “shade tree mechanics” whose assessment skills related to the origin of the problem are about as proficient as mine, and you’ve got all the conditions needed for the perfect storm. Did I mention that Craig also has their two dogs with him? I recently referred to them as Adorable and More Adorable in one of my blogs. It goes without saying, but if I were stuck in a motel room with the two of them, they would be labeled Double Trouble in short order.
The line from Hank Williams song that came to mind:
“I’ve never seen a night so long
When time goes crawling by
The moon just went behind a cloud
To hid its face and cry.”
Craig and the General have been in stranded in Alabama three days. My sense is that it has been three very long days. Add to the mix the two dogs Craig has with them and I’d be a candidate for needing a mental health assessment.
I’ve talked to the General frequently over the past three days. Calm! Absolutely Calm! Nothing ruffles her feathers. I don’t know how she does it. On the other hand, that might be the key to the fact that she’s put up with me for almost forever. She has the gift of patience.
All My Best!
Don