Car Repair 101

I am a firm believer in visiting local car repair shops while on vacation. I have to be. Every time I take a vacation, my car breaks down. Tires explode. Radiator hoses burst. Batteries die. I’ve seen more car repair shops outside the state of Nebraska than I have hotels. So, I recently took a trip to Paradise. You would have thought my car would give me a break since I was taking it there. No go. But I learned a very important lesson about car repair. It went like this:

There I was, stranded on the side of the road with a flat-as-a-pancake rear tire, a spare and a jack in the back, and very limited knowledge how to work either. And I was alone. Right outside a little place called Newcastle, Wyoming. With only 491 miles to go before I reached home.

Turns out Newcastlers like to farm. I know this because they drive pick-ups. Just like in Nebraska. Pick-ups quick capable of holding four young men. Who are prone to stop to help a stranded motorist. And who also just happen to be able to change a tire in under ten minutes. Which is a lot more than I can say for myself.

I was only a couple miles outside Newcastle, just on the other side of a bridge. But I might have been 50 miles away on the Interstate, speeding towards South Dakota. I think flat tires are worse at 75 mph. And the Interstate doesn’t have as many helpful drivers. Or nearby tire repair shops. But I was only close to Newcastle because I’d had to turn around. Because I’d missed my exit. Because I’d been distracted. Because I’d called my mom.

As it worked out, I and my spare tire made it back to the little farming community of Newcastle and got a brand new tire put on in under an hour. All I had to do was push the button to pop the trunk. I didn’t even have time to call for help. I felt like I had stepped into the NASCAR racing world or something. Who knows? Maybe my car was tired of all the times I’d stopped at restaurants and had decided to stop for a quick manicure before continuing the journey. So, the moral of the story? (It’s very important, especially for all your road-trippers.) If you’re going to have a flat tire, always call your mother first.

A Plastic Funeral

I presided over my first funeral today. I wish you could have been there. It was rather touching.

The dear deceased was a little plastic woman, all three inches of her owned, kept, and much beloved by Kylie, my niece. The mini-person was very agile. She knew how to do the splits and pull her legs up over her ears and bend over backwards. She could do things I’ve never seen a normal-sized person do. Her name was Mommy or Julie, depending on the day.

Then my dog found her. And chewed her head off.

Kylie was quite distraught. Especially when I handed her the head. Four-year olds shouldn’t have to see a thing like that.

So, I suggested a funeral.

It went off very well. We got an empty check box and filled it with two pieces of fabric, a purple flower, a hair clip, and the plastic woman. And her head. Then we got into our funeral clothes and waited for the rain to stop falling. Half an hour later, we filed somberly out into the cold and wind to the grave site. A patch of soft dirt at the back of the open shed. It was all very fittingly dark and gray and quiet.

I pulled down the shovel. Kylie was magnanimous and let the murderer attend the service. He tried to look properly sorrowful, but we had to remind him not to dig up the box in the ground.

We sang taps over the grave, and Ethan (big brother to the keeper of the deceased) played an African drum. Kylie wept. “I’m just so sorry. I’m just so sorry,” she said. And then she leaned against my leg, put her little gloved fingers up to her cheeks, and started sniffing.

The eulogy was short and sweet. “She was a good toy.” It sounded like something John Wayne would say if they’d made Toy Story a few dozen years before they did. Kylie was sniffing too much, and Ethan couldn’t remember any Bible verses. So, we stood in silence, thinking grave, noble thoughts.

Then it was time.

The honor of throwing the first handful of dirt went to the distraught keeper. She had to take her gloves off first. I heard a conspicuous sniff with every shovel-full I threw on top of the check box. Then she was buried. Committed to the ground. We planted a little rock to mark the grave. On the way back to the house, Ethan and Kylie discussed frogs and how silly they are.

One more little plastic life committed to the ground. One more four-year old introduced to grief. However fleeting. She is currently standing on the couch with drum sticks raised in the air, humming about Samson.

Her beloved plastic woman is gone. We’ll not say whether or not she is forgotten.