3 1/2-hour vacation

After a very busy morning of writing and editing, selecting and editing pictures and laying out two pages, then going home for a shower and packing, we left on our three-day trip to my inlaws at about 3:20 p.m.

About 3 1/2 hours later we were home again. That was a short vacation.

Roughly 30 miles from home, I felt something strange with the car and a little noise. I didn't have to get out of the car to know what it was. A very low tire.

I groaned. We were driving through the national forest at the time, so there wouldn't be any homes for a while. Not even a farmhouse. So it's up to me. I dumped everything out of the trunk to get to the spare tire. Located the jack and the "wrench" and the mini spare tire.

But hold on here. The spare tire was securely bolted down--and I didn't have a wrench. The situation was obvious. I opened the door and leaned in. "Get comfy," I said. "You're going to be here for a long time." I switched on the four-way flashers and started walking west. I had my cell phone along, as if that mattered. This is an area with no cell reception.

So away I walked. About a half hour later. I heard an engine behind me. There had been many cars and trucks passing by, but this engine was slowing down. I turned around to see a motorcycle pull to a stop next to me. "We changed your tire," the guy said--about my age with a short white beard. His lady was with him. After a few moments, we agreed that they should ride back and have his wife drive the car to where I was. They did. I thanked them heartily and sent them on their way.

But, as we discussed, the spare is a limited-use tire, and you're not supposed to go much faster than 40 mph on them. I finally decided to proceed to the next town, about 15 miles away, and try to find some place that would either patch the old tire or sell and install a new one.

Yeah. Fat chance of that, since we got to town at 5 p.m. on the Saturday of a holiday weekend. We actually found a place that sold tires, but they were just closing and weren't about to unclose. They said they'll be open again Sunday morning. Thanks a heap.

Under the circumstances, there was only one thing to do: drive back home. I wasn't about to drive another 150 miles while not going over 40 mph on a narrow state highway. We called and told my wife's family that we won't be visiting after all.

Instead, we'll be home, doing this and that and waiting for Tuesday morning when the full-service gas stations reopen. I was not in a very cheerful mood, and when I went downstairs, they (my wife and son) were watching Star Wars 2, which was on CBC. I'm sure it wasn't my wife's idea.

The movie lasted three hours, and it was terribly boring. I was fighting off sleep and trying to get comfortable and trying to ease a stiff back and neck. (Wonder how that happens, eh?) It finally ended, and my son went home.

I took my wife upstairs to bed, helped her change and heard her tell me that she still loves me. It didn't do much to cheer me up. Of all the things I hate, right at the very top of the list is letting people down by not keeping promises. Yeah, I know, the tire wasn't my fault. But the car is my responsibility. It's my car, and I'm the one who's responsible. So I'm disappointed and they're disappointed and everyone over there is disappointed. So I don't feel too terribly great right now.

But this may amaze you. All through this, I didn't curse or swear or say anything nasty at all. And I am really capable of it, too. But I didn't. Not when I saw the tire, not when I saw the bolt on the spare, not when the gas station guys said, Sorry, we're closed! Not when I started feeling depressed.

No, I didn't. I didn't say a single nasty thing about that fucking no-good Goddamned worthless piece of shit.