Signs of Life

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Signs of Life

Nancy L. Horner

Drive 'Em Till They Drop, Part 2

Our elderly Nissan, which we'd quite nearly given up for dead, was finally alive and running. Having driven the car around the block, David determined that he was ready to resume the insurance coverage. I had misplaced the insurance bill for a time and discovered the envelope on the day the payment was due, so I hopped into the Honda and drove downtown.

"While I'm here," I said, "I'd like to start up the insurance on our Nissan."

The agent tapped into her computer. "There's no Nissan listed under your names," she told me.

"Well, that's because you canceled our policy. I called and asked to keep it suspended. Do you not have any records at all?"

"Not a thing. They purge the files when a policy's dropped. You can only keep them suspended for six months."

I nodded. "It was dead for a quite a while."

She informed me that I'd need the identification number, which I didn't have on me. Good try, but the insurance would have to wait.

The next week, a mechanic at the quick oil-change shop informed me that my Honda must be running hot because it had a hose that looked like "it's about to bust". He pointed out the hose to me. "See that one that looks all fat like a balloon?"

I looked at my fat hose and nodded, sighing inside. Sometimes a driveway full of aging vehicles can be a real nuisance.

David changed out the hose but I kept my eye on the thermostat and discovered, while picking up my ten-year-old from school, that the engine was definitely overheating. Fortunately, William was experienced and knew to turn on the heater and open the windows to cool off the engine– miserable in our hot, humid climate, especially after sitting in line with the sun beating on one arm and sweat trickling down my back for over half an hour.

When the thermostat began to drop, I thought, "Funny that my ten-year-old has already experienced an overheating car."

The next day the car overheated, once again. William moaned as we rolled our windows down for the second time.

"I replaced the thermostat," David told me later, "and since that wasn't the problem, we'll probably have to take it to the shop." He looked pensive for a moment. "There are a few other things I'll check first, but we need to get that Nissan insurance started up."

A few days later, the insurance taken care of, David climbed into the Nissan and started to back down the driveway, headed to work. The car was so noisy I cringed. I pointed at the front left tire, which looked perilously low on air. "Should you drive with that tire so low?" I asked.

"It's okay; I still have a little tweaking to do," David answered with a grin. "I'll fill it up on the way to work. Or, maybe after."

I shrugged. "Oh...and I think you might have wasps living in the trunk. I noticed there was an interesting buzzing noise."

He nodded and drove away with a wave. I opted not to hold my breath, waiting to see if he made it all the way to work safely.

After work, David drove the Nissan to the gas station to fill the gas tank and tire, then proceeded into the automatic car wash. As sudsy water was vigorously brushed against the exterior, he noticed wasps emerging from beneath the hood of the car.

"I checked the windows to make sure they were rolled up tight," he told me, "and crossed my fingers that the wasps couldn't figure out how to get into the car with me."

"You know," I told him, "I'm starting to think Daniel may be right when he calls that car a piece of junk."

"It has character," David answered.

Daniel drove the car with character to school, the following day, while David took My Beloved Mazda to work, intending to get its oil changed. I had a meeting to attend in Jackson, about 50 miles east, and the plan was for David to fetch our ten-year-old from school so that I wouldn't have to rush back home after the lunchtime gathering. We would take the Honda to the shop another day.

I called David to remind him to pick up Will, while waiting for an email reminding me how to get to the meeting location. "Are you on your way?" he asked.

"Not yet."

"I'll come home for lunch then. Be there in a minute."

I hung up the phone and within a few moments it rang. "Uh, I can't get the Mazda started. Is this meeting important?"

The words "good grief" came to mind.

He managed to get the battery jumped and made his way home, but then the Mazda promptly died on the driveway. "Okay," I said. "Three out of four cars need work." David nodded and took the ailing Honda back to work while I hit the road.

The next day, I ran some errands in the van. When I returned, David pointed at a wet spot on the driveway. "The van's leaking transmission fluid," he said. I felt my shoulders slump and another sigh coming on. The automobile situation was really starting to stink.

Over the weekend, David managed to fix enough of the minor car troubles to keep all but the Honda out of the shop.

"You know," I told him. "I think it's about time to think about investing in a new automobile. I'm beginning to feel a little trapped, here. I need to hit the road, now and then, and how am I going to do that with all our vehicles limping?"

"They're okay, now," David said, defensively

I gave him a long look. The "Drive 'Em Till They Drop" policy has its merits; but all the same, I plan to spend the my autumn lobbying for a revision to: "When They're All Getting Old, Ditch The Worst Car And Get a New One."