When I turned 16, I had little motivation to drive. Growing up in a small town and with two older brothers, I felt I could safely and easily get to wherever I needed to go. Jarrod and Royce left to pursue higher education and still I resisted. The only real answer I could probably give is that I don’t care for being told what to do, but even less so doing something for the sole purpose of expectation. Just because getting their permit to drive was what teenagers did was no reason for me to feel obligated to join in. So I dug in my heels and obstinately refused to be dragged to the water OR to be made to drink.
In college, I largely relied on friends for rides or I simply walked. Even after I had kids, I got a long double stroller and I’d strap them in and hoof it wherever we needed to be. Within walking distance was the kids’ daycare, a church, a grocery store, my college, the library, and a park. What more could I possibly need that couldn’t wait until Michael was off?
I was content with my lack of ability, even as I was a considerable burr in everyone’s collective backside.
The catalyst for change was Benjafetus. While still comfortably contained within my womb, I could feasibly waddle my way around. Once he was out….man, I was gonna have to get a longer stroller.
Gabriel would soon be enrolled in the preschool program for children with disabilities across town, when little Ben was only five months old. Emerald would be starting pre-kindergarten. What was I going to do then?
For a long time, I decided to mull it over and continue walking.
Michael thought bribery would best suit the situation. At the time, he worked at Scoggin Dickey Chevy dealership. Someone had traded in a gold (my favorite color!!) Buick Century that wasn’t worth the gas in the tank. It was in fairly decent condition for its age, but had seen a lot of miles in that time. The general manager told Michael to drive it around for a bit, see how it suited us, so we never signed papers. It was a well-loved, plodding donkey of a car that made a loud pttttttthhhhbbbtt! whenever you came to a complete stop.
I loved her and christened her Krissy Bug.
In that car, Michael began to patiently teach his aged wife how to operate a motor vehicle. Using calming, gentle tones—as one would talk to a skittish horse or bomb-bedecked lunatic—he would coach me along back roads and around quiet suburbs.
“You’re going to want to use your blinker here...okay, that’s okay, you’ll get it next time.”
“So, that was good, you did good, but when we turn, all four wheels should stay touching the ground.”
“Alright, so you’re in the wrong lane, when you get a chance you’ll want to get over, just so we don’t get hit head on from a car coming the other direction.”
It was messy and inglorious and a painstakingly slow process, but gradually I began to improve. Krissy Bug was a sweet car, but we were not going to be able to fit three car seats in the back. On one of our after-church drives around the Scoggin Dickey parking lot, we spot it.
The color of a Christmas tree and sparkling clean, a 2002 Chevrolet Astro. He’s got grey interior, room for eight. You can tell someone had been taking good care of him. There’s no way he’s in our price range.
Michael asks around about him the next day. The Astro is not nearly as costly as we were anticipating! He is actually within our means. Our grungy little family was moving up in the world—with Michael’s temperamental Jeep, we would officially be a two car family!
It was determined that as the main transporter of the kids, I would get the more reliable and spacious van. The Jeep (named Icey) was a cantankerous old man better suited to Michael. He screamed in protest whenever the air conditioner was turned on, refused to pick up any radio station that was not NPR, and rattled with an abandon as though every ride were his last. Comparatively, the decade-old Astro was a gentleman of a car.
I named him Clarence after “It’s a Wonderful Life”. It was in him that I finally got my driver’s license, after failing the first time for running a stop sign. (I refuse to live in shame any longer! Well, some shame. Fair amount of shame.) Driving through to get coffee, I scraped his side, leaving a hot pink streak of paint. On the back windshield, we posted a Star Wars themed family—Michael represented by Darth Vader, me and Emerald as big and little Princess Leias, Gabriel as Luke Skywalker, and baby Benjamin as Yoda. (Tula would later be added as Ashoka.)
Clarence ran beautifully for a number of years, all the way up to us moving to Abilene. We had been here just three days when the big hailstorm of June 2014. That storm left visible damage all over the city—it had busted out a couple of the windows to our house and had left little divots all over Clarence’s body. We were lucky; others had their vehicles wrecked by the hail. The insurance company cut the dealership a check for the damage that paid off the last remaining balance, and we finally owned him free and clear.
He had some really weird habits, like frantically locking and unlocking the doors while I was driving. We would often have arguments about how much fuel he currently held, which he would grudgingly concede that I was generally right. One of his back doors didn’t feel like opening. Overall he was still a very good van.
Then he got what we called gremlins. Little problems that were inconsistent. He’d have trouble starting, so we’d call someone to take a look at it, where he’d roar to life like he didn’t have a care in the world. The gauges would act funky. His antifreeze was going somewhere because we were having to replace it more often than you’d think one would reasonably have to, but there were never puddles.
One day he breaks down. We can’t afford to fix him, so we leave him parked. For three months. Dad comes out to take a look, and we can’t find the stinkin key. So we have to buy a new ignition and Dad has to pull off the dash to change it out so we have a key that can turn on the car….
...and it turns out the freakin battery is just dead.
We get a new battery and it runs dead way quicker than a new battery ought, so we get him in to see a mechanic. An after-market burglar alarm that the original owner had installed was acting up, causing all the angst and gremlins. They rip it out, and Clarence is running better than ever.
The original key was located in Emerald’s desk months later because she is a lunatic kleptomaniac, and for a little while we have no trouble from Mr Clarence.
Many long and boring mechanical stories later, we have arrived at a crossroads:
Do we continue to sink money and repairs into our old and faithful friend, or do we take him to the farm upstate where he can chase chickens and we get a newer, more reliable mode of transportation?
Maybe I have already come to my decision, judging by this long Ode to Clarence.
—Andie
No comments:
Post a Comment