I used to have a weakness when it came to reading books. This was years ago, when I was still a kid. You see, the problem was, I'd get so drawn in to a story that I'd get anxious about where things would go, how they would end. Does Character X survive? Do so-and-so and what's-his-face get together? Will I feel happy, or sad? Satisfied or unresolved? The tension was more than I was willing to bear.
So, to deal with it, I flipped through the pages, reading a line here, a short paragraph there, and too frequently that final page. Ultimately--and I recognized this as well then as now--I ended disappointing myself. Either way the story ended, I missed out on the thrill of the build up to a happily ever after or the heartbreak of a sorrowful end.
At least I knew that there was an end.
And I was prepared for it.
I find myself wanting desperately to flip ahead in the pages of my life, to discover if I must prepare myself for heartbreak. It's a good thing, I suppose, that I can't. I don't know if I would be able to deal with the answers.
Friday, June 19, 2009
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
Funny what a difference $200 can make
Dad laughed when I showed him the right-front tire, and he laughed harder when I said I hadn't gotten new tires since 2004 . . . if I remembered correctly. Might have been earlier. It was bald.
"Car drifts to the right when I let go of the wheel," I further informed him.
"Well, I guess you know what you have to do."
And yes, I did. I pride myself a little on being fairly conscious of the state of my vehicle. A Hyundai Accent GL, silver, 2001, it wasn't exactly a nice car. But it worked. I bought in the summer of 2003. Almost right away I had troubles with the transmission. Not long after that I had to replace the rear axle. Then the tires. Then the brakes. The exhaust pipe. It's gone through tune ups, "major" tune ups, dead batteries, the bright red blinking engine sign of doom, and yet not once has it stranded me on a major freeway during one of my many trips from Indiana to Utah, from Utah to California, from Indiana to Ohio, and wherever else I need to get. I always catch the problems in time, before they become real problems . . . though not early enough to prevent problems. I carry a tight purse.
I like long rides in the car. In fact, I prefer 12 hours in a car to 4 hours on a plane. I like to see where I'm going. I like to be in control. I like the stereo blasting my music, or my book-on-tape, while I pop sunflower seeds and watch the mile markers fly by. It's just me, in the car I bought, the car I care for, and the thousands of miles of paved USA. I guess, on a level, it's an issue of independence. I'll use google maps, but I prefer an atlas--I like making guesses, especially when they prove right. But I also like fixing mistakes, knowing the rules of the road and the geography of my mind well enough to course correct in minimal time.
I like the surge of the engine as I pass slower vehicles on a two-lane highway; I like stopping for gas in the country, where there's nothing in any direction but me, the road, and this one gas station; I like testing myself by taking new roads without consulting a map, and allowing my inner compass direct me a little south, a little east, until I meet up with a familiar road. I haven't made any major mistakes yet.
"Take it to a Discount Tires when you get back to Ohio," Dad advised me. "You can get by with the back tires for a while longer, but those two front ones need to be replaced. And you'll need to get everything aligned."
So I set off again, back to Ohio, a five-and-a-half hour trip. Easy as cake that comes in a box. I hoped it would not rain, as the wiper on the driver's side didn't work. But that wasn't too important. It hadn't worked properly for about two-and-a-half years, and though I was planning to get the wiper arm fixed very soon, I compensated for its defectiveness with RainX, which had seen me through plenty of storms. Fortunately, though the skies were gray through northern Indiana, they cleared up again through mid Ohio. When I reached I-270, just north of Columbus, I stopped for gas, checked my watch, and ancticipated that I would reach Athens at about 3:30.
I got back on the freeway. Not five minutes later, I heard an odd flapping sound coming from what seemed to be beneath the car. I turned off Bram Stoker's Dracula--downloaded from librivox.org--to listen more carefully. Flip-FLAP flip-FLAP flip-FLAPFLAPFLAP thunk! I turned my eyes to the rearview mirror and saw a sizeable piece of rubber tumble down the freeway. My attention returned at once to the road and to the approaching exit, which I did not hesitate to take.
I pulled into a gas station parking lot, killed the engine, hopped out of the car, and sped around the hood to drop to a knee beside the front-right tire. I could not immediately see the defect, but then placed my hand on the top of the tire and ran my fingers down the non-existent treads. Short spikes stuck into my fingertips, and I pulled back, crouched lower, and saw where the rubber had peeled away. Little metal spikes, like staples, stood up all over. I groaned. There was no possible way I could make it to Athens on this tire. I stood and went into the gas station.
The woman behind the counter didn't know if there was a Discount Tires nearby, but another patron did. He described it to me: "Turn right at this light and take it until you come to Gender Road. Hang a left, go all the way down, over some railroad tracks, and where Gender becomes Bryce, you'll see it on your left."
"How far?"
"Oh, I'd say ten minutes."
I prayed that my tire, in its current state, would last just ten minutes more. After creating a mental map, I returned to my Hyundai to follow it. I drove slowly, and with my hazard lights flashing. I rolled right by a cop without any assistance.
In answer to that prayer, I found the Discount Tires easily, and $185 later, my car thanked me for yet another new part. Well, two new parts. I drove away a little pleased with myself for having correct the problem before it became a major inconvenience, leaving me broken down on I-270 or worse, in an accident from a blown-out tire. The drifting problem had even been fixed.
I like to think that I take care of myself, that I do a pretty decent job at it. It's only now, as I write this, that I realize that there's someone else looking out for me, too, who is doing a much better job of it than I ever could. He answers prayers.
"Car drifts to the right when I let go of the wheel," I further informed him.
"Well, I guess you know what you have to do."
And yes, I did. I pride myself a little on being fairly conscious of the state of my vehicle. A Hyundai Accent GL, silver, 2001, it wasn't exactly a nice car. But it worked. I bought in the summer of 2003. Almost right away I had troubles with the transmission. Not long after that I had to replace the rear axle. Then the tires. Then the brakes. The exhaust pipe. It's gone through tune ups, "major" tune ups, dead batteries, the bright red blinking engine sign of doom, and yet not once has it stranded me on a major freeway during one of my many trips from Indiana to Utah, from Utah to California, from Indiana to Ohio, and wherever else I need to get. I always catch the problems in time, before they become real problems . . . though not early enough to prevent problems. I carry a tight purse.
I like long rides in the car. In fact, I prefer 12 hours in a car to 4 hours on a plane. I like to see where I'm going. I like to be in control. I like the stereo blasting my music, or my book-on-tape, while I pop sunflower seeds and watch the mile markers fly by. It's just me, in the car I bought, the car I care for, and the thousands of miles of paved USA. I guess, on a level, it's an issue of independence. I'll use google maps, but I prefer an atlas--I like making guesses, especially when they prove right. But I also like fixing mistakes, knowing the rules of the road and the geography of my mind well enough to course correct in minimal time.
I like the surge of the engine as I pass slower vehicles on a two-lane highway; I like stopping for gas in the country, where there's nothing in any direction but me, the road, and this one gas station; I like testing myself by taking new roads without consulting a map, and allowing my inner compass direct me a little south, a little east, until I meet up with a familiar road. I haven't made any major mistakes yet.
"Take it to a Discount Tires when you get back to Ohio," Dad advised me. "You can get by with the back tires for a while longer, but those two front ones need to be replaced. And you'll need to get everything aligned."
So I set off again, back to Ohio, a five-and-a-half hour trip. Easy as cake that comes in a box. I hoped it would not rain, as the wiper on the driver's side didn't work. But that wasn't too important. It hadn't worked properly for about two-and-a-half years, and though I was planning to get the wiper arm fixed very soon, I compensated for its defectiveness with RainX, which had seen me through plenty of storms. Fortunately, though the skies were gray through northern Indiana, they cleared up again through mid Ohio. When I reached I-270, just north of Columbus, I stopped for gas, checked my watch, and ancticipated that I would reach Athens at about 3:30.
I got back on the freeway. Not five minutes later, I heard an odd flapping sound coming from what seemed to be beneath the car. I turned off Bram Stoker's Dracula--downloaded from librivox.org--to listen more carefully. Flip-FLAP flip-FLAP flip-FLAPFLAPFLAP thunk! I turned my eyes to the rearview mirror and saw a sizeable piece of rubber tumble down the freeway. My attention returned at once to the road and to the approaching exit, which I did not hesitate to take.
I pulled into a gas station parking lot, killed the engine, hopped out of the car, and sped around the hood to drop to a knee beside the front-right tire. I could not immediately see the defect, but then placed my hand on the top of the tire and ran my fingers down the non-existent treads. Short spikes stuck into my fingertips, and I pulled back, crouched lower, and saw where the rubber had peeled away. Little metal spikes, like staples, stood up all over. I groaned. There was no possible way I could make it to Athens on this tire. I stood and went into the gas station.
The woman behind the counter didn't know if there was a Discount Tires nearby, but another patron did. He described it to me: "Turn right at this light and take it until you come to Gender Road. Hang a left, go all the way down, over some railroad tracks, and where Gender becomes Bryce, you'll see it on your left."
"How far?"
"Oh, I'd say ten minutes."
I prayed that my tire, in its current state, would last just ten minutes more. After creating a mental map, I returned to my Hyundai to follow it. I drove slowly, and with my hazard lights flashing. I rolled right by a cop without any assistance.
In answer to that prayer, I found the Discount Tires easily, and $185 later, my car thanked me for yet another new part. Well, two new parts. I drove away a little pleased with myself for having correct the problem before it became a major inconvenience, leaving me broken down on I-270 or worse, in an accident from a blown-out tire. The drifting problem had even been fixed.
I like to think that I take care of myself, that I do a pretty decent job at it. It's only now, as I write this, that I realize that there's someone else looking out for me, too, who is doing a much better job of it than I ever could. He answers prayers.
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