Zen and the art of automotive maintenance
It’s been a bang-up week. With four children of driving age, you expect to take a few hits now and then. But four hits in seven days?
It’s a perfect storm of car calamity: two half-totals, one transmission failure, and one towing. Only our youngest, Juliana, remains an island of sanity in a sea of automotive chaos. But then, she’s only 6.
Our son, Calvin, flush with the cockiness of a new learner’s permit, crashed into a curb, causing thousands of dollars in damage to our formerly best car.
“I keep replaying it in my mind,” he says, eliciting maternal sympathy ... that evaporated with his next statement. “I still can’t figure out what happened.”
My husband, Craig, desperate to keep our insurance premium lower than our mortgage, says we need to “unreport” our son’s accident and pay the repairs out of pocket. “We can’t afford for our rates to go up again,” he says. “Or worse, for them to drop us. We’ve had three accidents this year.” He sighs, “Just be glad Juliana doesn’t drive yet.”
Our son’s crackup was the opening salvo in this automotive total war. Sherman Marched to the Sea; we are Slouching to the Shop.
Eighteen-year-old Caroline’s 12-year-old Toyota is boycotting reverse gear. We’ll probably sell it “as is,” or assign it to my husband. He doesn’t have to parallel-park, and is strong enough to push it out of any parking spot.
My vehicle, a new-to-us Toyota with 200,000 miles, became Caroline’s car of choice. But while staying at a friend’s apartment downtown, she overslept and the city towed the Toyota.
The city hauls cars to the Cosmic Black Hole Impound Lot, and if you’re fortunate enough to find your vehicle, it’s usually sprouted dings and dents. Aided by her friend’s mother (her own was too grumpy), Caroline retrieved my Toyota, $200 poorer.
Melissa presented the pièce de résistance, sideswiping a wall in a downtown parking garage after work, smashing the bumper and a front fender. She called her father in tears.
“I must have misjudged the distance,” she cried. “The metal is rubbing against the tire. Should I call the insurance company to have it towed?”
“No!” he exclaimed. He hurried downtown and hammered out the bumper. So now, except for the dented front end and the preexisting hole in the muffler, it’s in pretty good shape.
Fine automobiles run in the family. Rebecca, well heeled from her minimum-wage job at Starbucks, can’t afford the car our neighbor gave her. It needed a new head gasket, windshield, tires, brakes, and a radiator to pass inspection. And – whoops! The whole engine block is warped! – a new engine, hoses, and water pump. It now lacks only a speedometer and air conditioning.
“I don’t really need air conditioning,” Rebecca says stoically, “and I can guess how fast I’m going.”
Great, hon. Just tell it to the cops.
I can barely keep up with our motoring musical chairs: Rebecca drives our neighbor’s old car, Melissa drives Craig’s old Honda, Caroline drives my old Toyota, Craig temporarily drives a Rent-A-Wreck, and Calvin begs to drive anything. This leaves me Juliana’s Big Wheel. What’s next? Craig on a unicycle, juggling his briefcase and travel mug?
I recently received a blistering email from my mother that read, “Any car that cannot go in reverse is a menace to the driver and everyone else. Get rid of it! Please stop buying these heaps!”
Although we’re two graduate-degreed working adults, our cars are barely above the bucket-o’-bolts category. Our money is otherwise engaged in paying multiple college tuitions to produce well-educated Starbucks baristas.
We try to take these minor setbacks in stride. Jesus said not to worry about having food to eat and clothes to wear. But he walked everywhere, even on water, which is not an option for us.
If we can make it through the next few years, we’ll have a breather before Juliana starts driving. At this rate, we might face retirement armed only with debt – and a couple of used cars.
