Grumpy’s truck is in the shop again! If it’s not one thing, it’s another and I get to be the driver.
His truck is equipped with so many gadgets I cannot even begin to understand the reason for them or even trying to figure out how to use them. I’ve told him about the more gadgets in the truck, the more opportunities for them to go bad or be replaced. But he loves his truck.
I drive a 14-year-old car, standard transmission, close to 200,000 miles in the odometer, five gears, windows rattling every time I go over a chuckhole on the dirt road, but it gets me where I want to go.
Living on a gravel road gives us two seasons: mud or dust. When it rains, it’s mud everywhere, and when it’s dry, it’s dust. Driving to the car wash is only warranted when I am going to a meeting somewhere. So, it’s a waste of money to get it washed more often.
Speaking of chuckholes, driving out to the market, we need to know where the chuckholes are, so to avoid them; driving grumpy around, I get the second opinion as to drive on the right or on the left to avoid getting in the middle of the chuckhole and then bumping all over the place.
Just to make matters worse, one evening driving home, I tried to avoid several chuckholes on the road, and drove too close to the side, right over a concrete culvert, slicing two of my tires. I could almost hear the air out of the passenger side tires, as the car stopped because both tires were flat. No way to move the car, not even trying to call the auto repair service, as I only had one spare tire in the back.
Locked the car, left it on the side of the road and called to get a ride home. The next morning, the tow truck came in, hauled the car out to the tire shop and I was presented with a bill for two new tires. If I had an expense account, I could write them off somehow. This way, I must pay for them myself.
So Grumpy’s truck is in the shop again, and I’m his driver. I can’t wait to take him places so he can criticize my driving, either I’m driving too fast or too slowly, I’m not paying attention to the signs and he’s certain the county sheriff is waiting at the next corner to give me a ticket for my driving. I know I shouldn’t have told him about the police car who followed me last week and stopped me because I started to accelerate way before the 55-mph sign was visible. The policeman couldn’t have been older than 16 years old, and when he saw how old I am, he decided to let me go with a warning; and he was nice enough not to cite me for a broken taillight, which I immediately got fixed.
Hopefully Grumpy’s truck will be ready to come home by the end of the week.
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