This diary has very little, on the surface, to do with the big national issues of the day. Rather, it is closer to a diary, in the real, hide-it-under-the-pillow sort of way as opposed the blogging sort of way predominant on this website. But, I thought I'd give it a shot. If you'se thinks I should delete it for being not the sort of thing welcome here, I certainly will.
That said, here goes:
Some background: 3 years ago, my ex moved with my daughter to live with her parents, some 100 miles away. I stayed put, partly because I wanted to maintain some stability for my kid, partly because I wanted to be in a more central location for my job, but mostly because I like it here in Montpelier, VT. Nevertheless, I did try to move closer a couple summers ago, an unmitigated failure (turns out that every weekend Nora was with me, she wanted to go to Montpelier to see her old friends and stomping grounds). Anyway, I've been driving the the distance, with very few exceptions, every Wednesday evening to hang with her, and then alternating Fridays to bring her up to my place for the weekend. You know, neither rain, nor snow, nor dark of night shall stay this father from his appointed rounds. It takes one heck of a lot to keep me from my daughter. Heck, just ask my ex, she knows better than anyone.
Anyway, one of those "heck of a lot"s happened this last Friday: My car, a 99 Jetta TDI (that I'd been running on biodiesel for two years) blew a rod in very dramatic fashion on the freeway as I was headed down to pick her up. I mean, seriously: big noise, car jerks all over, flash of flame, gobs of smoke, 150-yard oil slick on the road; the whole enchilada. As soon as I determined that I was safe, and could in fact dare to breathe again (and my sphincter had returned to a state that allowed my legs to move), I checked under the hood and saw a gaping hole in the side of the engine block. Seriously. I took some pictures, and as soon as I can get them off my camera I'll post them here. But anyway, I'd like to say that this was the start of a big adventure. But, alas, it seems to my mind more of an epilogue to an adventure that began just about three weeks ago. A completely separate book, according to the mechanic and the insurance company, as they would have it. More on that later.
Let's start on July 7 in Burlington, shall we?
There I Was: Looking out my office window, watching the rain, then hail, then rain again fall out of the sky in a way that could only be described as "Biblical." Old Testament. As some coworkers were admiring the rain gods' handiwork, the parking lot started filling with water. See, the lot is very topologically interesting. And since we're just about exactly the same elevation as the lake into which storm drains drain, the main drains plainly strained to drain the rain. I'm sayin', it was plain: The rain reigned as the drains strained to drain. Cars became erstwhile metal islands, a Carchipelago, if you will. And there was mine: seeming to float as the water reached the floorboards (remember those old VW Beetle commercials?). Came time to leave, as I had a performance as Skip the Woodchuck that evening in Montpelier. I doffed (Doffed!) my shoes and waded to the car (love them Carhartt shorts!!), was delighted to see the the water had not yet gotten into the interior of the car. The car started just fine, and I backed out of my mooring, and began to motor toward higher ground. Water provides more resistance than air, as I found out, because I'd let out the clutch too fast and stalled the thing. Or so I thought.
It made a very ugly sound as I engaged the starter. Grindy, gravelly, metal-on-metal sound that's pretty much the opposite of the "vroom!" I wanted to hear. Even when I cussed, using the same intonation and inflection as the starter, the engine stubbornly refused to grace me with the sound of a well-oiled machine. So, OK. Got water in the starter, that's all. Ayup. Got out of the car again (and in opening the door did allow water into the interior--go figure!), determined to push the car onto higher ground, allow it to dry. My coworkers watched, one even cheered my Herculean effort. I mean, picture it: a skinny 45 year old pushing a car through murky water up to his knees barefoot. Never underestimate the power of natural exercise combined with a pinch of embarrassment. Afterwords, I even had the spare breath to call the manager of the baseball team to let him know I might be a tad late.
A tad late. 30 minutes later, I tried the starter again, and it spoke back in that same tone of vice, letting me know in no uncertain terms that it did not intend to do its job simply because I was turning a little piece of metal in a little slot from the relative comfort of the driver's seat. Called the baseball manager again to let him know that, as far as I was concerned, he would be woodchuck-less that evening (How much muck could a woodchuck chuck....?). I was devastated to let him down, but what could I do? Devastation and all, I look back on that moment with longing for the "good old days"....