June 11, 2013 (Tuesday)
How well do I remember in my younger days staying up all night working on my old car because without it I could not get to school or to work the next day. I was married, in the seminary, trying to get along on as little money as possible, so I learned bit by bit how to work on a car.
I am blessed by having a very nice late model car these days. Just like new, it’s big, beautiful and very comfortable and dependable. But recently I decided to put an old mini van into service, along with the good car, for a while because I needed something in which I could haul stuff. I mean mostly stuff headed for the dump ground. The old van has been in the family for 15 years, swapped around from one family member to another, finally making its way back home to me. All told, it has 22 years under its belt.
I saw it needed a current state inspection sticker, but also needed some work done before it could travel on any road or pass inspection. For some unknown reason I thought I could fix the car myself. Male ego? After several days of battling with the old van like Don Quixote fighting a windmill, I can say I won the fight. But at what price? My scalp is painfully sunburned, my hands have cuts on them, my back and knees are complaining, and my arthritis is acting up in both hands. One day I even had to wrap my wrist to overcome a painful swelling.
Now that I have it done, I’m wondering, “What was I thinking?” This blog may be considered my “farewell to wrenches and pliers blog.” I don’t mind the work; I’m just no longer into the pain thing. Besides, I have become acquainted with a very good mechanic who always does it right and never complains. He’s a nice guy so I’m gonna start sharing my riches with him, as long as the Baptist pension fund holds out and Social Security doesn’t lose my address.