Steering Committee
Thursday, December 6, 2007 at 01:25AM Strange things keep happening to my children involving cars and parking garages! This past Tuesday the drama revolved around daughter Erica, a senior in college in East Tennessee. Erica goes to downtown Knoxville for her job every day at mid-afternoon, and of course she travels on the interstate to get there. I don't like to think about Erica traveling on the interstate in Knoxville or anywhere else, on account of, despite the fact that she's rather brilliant, she has, shall we say, air in her hair. BUT she's 21 and you've got to let them live their own lives! Extra prayer mandatory! Erica's wheels happen to be my old wheels ... a 1998 Buick Park Avenue that trickled down to Erica when I got my new (used) Cadillac CTS in October of '06. We've pretty much kept our kids in pseudo-clunkers from the time they started driving until they could afford their own cars. The insurance is cheaper and you don't have to worry about dings and dents! Plus it keeps them humble ...
Stephanie drove an aged Ford Escort which we bought for her while it was on its last legs, many moons ago. It was passed down to Audrey when I got the Park Avenue that replaced my aging Crown Victoria, at which time Stephanie began driving that car. She drove it until she got married in 2001. The day before the wedding, my husband demanded the keys. (I think she had been hoping to keep it, silly girl! But at our house, upon marrying you are officially on your own wheelswise.) The Escort died in an accident (no humans were hurt) while Audrey was driving it at college. Erica drove the Crown Victoria until it got traded in when I got my Cadillac, just to get it off our hands. I can't remember what Audrey drove from the time she wrecked the Escort until she bought her Chevy Malibu after college two years ago, but it doesn't matter. I can see now I should have named THIS blog Musical Cars, instead of the one I posted a few weeks ago ...
Cue Erica on the interstate on Tuesday, tooling along to her place of employment. Suddenly and without warning, she has no power steering. She panics. She manages to keep from causing a pileup while wrestling with the stiff, recalcitrant steering wheel and simultaneously fishing in her purse for her cell phone. She's a frog's hair from freaking out. She finds the phone and calls her dad, many miles away in South Carolina and very busy at work. Her dad does not like the panicky sound of her voice and barks at her to calm down. She begins to cry. He begins to yell (he hates it when the girls cry) at her to "Calm down! Calm down, Erica!" ... which of course has the opposite effect. She sort of hangs up on him. He begins calling her back. The whole time, she's maneuvering her car off the interstate at her exit and heading for the parking garage. Now, I would not have headed for the parking garage in a car with no power steering ... but then I'm not 21 with air in my hair. Erica has a parking pass courtesy of her employer, and she's in college and cash poor, and by golly she was going to park in the parking garage. All the way at the top of the parking garage, where the available spots are! How many ultra-tight turns might that be? With no power steering ...
So of course as Erica is doing all of the above with great difficulty and I am sure much sighing and exaggerated batting of her ultra-long eyelashes, her father is attempting to raise her on her cell phone, to make amends or at the very least make her cry some more. She does not answer the phone (says she didn't hear it) ... so he begins to leave messages. "Erica! Erica, call me back!" Click. "Erica ... please call me." Click. "Erica! Erica! Just call me please!" Click. She finally "hears" the phone and calls him back, at which time he informs her that he has called upon her brother to rescue her. "Just go to work and don't worry about it," he counsels, no longer barking. Not exactly purring, but at least not barking. Erica thanks him (about as stiffly as the steering column, I imagine), and trots off to work ...
Cue Andrew, just about to go off duty for the day at McGhee-Tyson Airbase about seven miles from where Erica works. Andrew drives a truck -- a big white pickup -- that he bought for himself and pays the insurance on himself. Boys are different from girls in more ways than one, y'all. Andrew's first truck was a clunker too, given to him by his grandfather, but he's had at least four different trucks since then. He's a truck man. He is also one of those kids who was born knowing what to do when a car experiences mechanical problems. He's a troubleshooting fool; he usually gets to the heart of the issue quicker than you can say catalytic converter. He's a godsend at such times as when you are 250 miles away from your daughter and she is having a nervous car breakdown.
(When our girls were little, it was always very traumatic when they switched from training wheels to a regular bike. I remember many tears and scrapes and trembling and weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth from all three -- or at least two -- of our girls when the day came to take off down the street on a two-wheeler. Not the boy. When Andrew was less than three years old, one Saturday his dad announced that they were going to remove the training wheels from his bike. Greg got the tools, ceremoniously undid the screws, and transformed Andy's baby bike into a lean mean traveling machine. "Now wait for me," he told the boy. "I'm going to put the tools away and then I'll teach you to ride." He turned around, walked to the workbench in the garage, laid the tools down, and turned back around. Andrew was riding the bike expertly around and around the driveway. He's been happiest when on wheels ever since. That's what I'm talking about ...)
At any rate, on Tuesday afternoon Andrew arrived at the parking garage, wound his way up and up and up to the sixth or seventh floor where Erica had somehow managed to park, and located the steering-challenged Park Avenue. He raised the hood, poked and prodded around, and in about three minutes (according to him) had determined the source of the problem. Some sort of a tension belt had melted or stretched or corroded or otherwise stopped cooperating. He knew what he had to do: replace it! So he jumped in his truck ... and realized he had no money to pay to get out of the parking garage. (Apparently he too is cash poor ... seems to be a trend in our family.) Not to be deterred from accomplishing the mission before him, he set out on foot and located an ATM machine about five blocks away. He got cash. He walked back to the parking garage and retrieved his truck. He drove to the auto parts store and got the part he needed. He drove back to the parking garage and replaced the worn-out belt. All this took about four hours from the time his dad called him. Erica reports that her car is running better than ever, and I think even now she is baking chocolate-chip cookies for Andrew. If she isn't, she should be ...
Reader Comments (2)
I have a little man who helps me too - no, not Pip (doesn't know one end of the engine from the other) but an Automobile Association man. Every one I've ever encountered has been charming and sweet, even the one who rescued me some 18 winters ago when I locked my keys in the car on a wet and dismal Tuesday evening. He never said a word, just jimmied the lock, reached in, handed me my keys, smiled sweetly and departed in a shimmering haze.
It's nice to know that Andrew has a future career up his sleeve - the more strings to the bow, the better the tune!
Kiss to Erica and tut at Greg for me - men!
"departed in a shimmering haze" ... LOL! Depps you crack me up. Poor Erica ... she can't win when it comes to cars ... or men.