Domestic Bliss Report

Motherhood is hard work. If we don't stick together, we'll all fall apart.

Tuesday, July 25, 2006

Sabbatical is over.

It was spent with the in-laws, which is not the nightmare of sitcoms. Mine are real human beings and accept that I am too, with the benefit of they love their grandchildren. Anyone bringing the little beings gets bonus points.
And the kitchen floor was done in one day. It looks great, and most of the stuff is moved back. Some that hasn't returned is not destined to, hooray!
The bit of excitement happened on the way back. I was making terrific time--pulling out around 12:30, already south of Flint by 2, no potty stops even. Mahvelous, sailing along, thinking I'm going to be home near 3.
Then about Clarkston some Heaven-sent (you'll understand as you read) folks tap their horn. "Your front tire looks really low," they tell me.
Nuts, there goes my record time. Or does it? I waffle about whether to stop; it's only about 45 minutes to go, if traffic holds. Prudence dictates a potty stop, though; the kids have been really patient and they're all awake. I decide to put some air in the tire, hit the toilets, and be on the road. Getting off the 75, I turn east toward the first-seen Shell instead of west toward the closer station.
When we stop, the passenger side front tire is leaking so badly I can hear the air whooshing out. Houston, we have a problem. Checking the back of the Venture, I can find the spare and the tire iron, but no jack. Great. I'll call Dale about it.
As the three kids and I are trooping in for our second reason to stop, we turn in the first door we find. Oops, not the gas station; it looks like a mechanic's shop. We back out and proceed to the next door, where we have a winner. Priority #2 scratched off the list, we buy a bag of cheese puffs. Husband is incommunicado--I later learn he was on an important call for work, but almost picked up.
"I don't suppose you can help me. I'm losing air so fast I can hear it, but I can only find the tire iron and the spare."
The kind cashier says, "I can't, but Frank can," indicating the mechanic's shop we had almost entered. We go there.
"Do you want a new tire, or do you want me to fix the one you've got?"
"I just was thinking changing it, as I've got a donut."
Frank comes out and looks at the tire. It was already completely flat; I wouldn't have made it to the next exit, let alone all the way home. "Pull up to here," he instructs, walking out the jack. He deftly removes the offending tire while the kids wait, though their curiosity means they have to come out for the reattachment less than five minutes later.
"Thanks so much," I said. "How much do I owe you?"
"Not a thing, don't worry about it," he said as he wheeled the jack back into the shop.
I didn't argue.

In case you weren't paying attention: This was the Shell station, off exit 89, east of the 75. Stop there for a quick oil change, top off the tank, potty stop, cheese puffs, whatever. Make sure Frank is your guy.

And to those folks who told me about the tire, whoever you are: God bless and Godspeed.


At 12:27 PM, Blogger Diane said...

May there always be a Frank around every time something unfortunate is about to happen!


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