This past weekend, we traveled to Tennessee for a nephew’s wedding — my husband and I in our car (and then our younger son, too, when we picked him up at the Park & Ride along the highway), and the rest of the kids in my older son’s pickup. My husband and I, tanked up on glazed cake doughnuts and coffee, and then settled in for a long day.
We had no idea just how long it would be.
A few hours into the trip, my husband accelerated to pass a semi that was weaving back and forth, and then — pooffff — the car felt . . . I don’t know, different. We pulled over, but unable to detect the source of the problem, we continued to the next exit.
At Advance Auto, a couple friendly guys cheerfully helped my husband dig around in the motor and troubleshoot, and then made calls to their buddies on our behalf. (I am convinced mechanic wannabees hang around auto parts stores in hopes of random cool repair opportunities.)
As per their recommendation, we drove another mile to a dealership. While the mechanics hoisted the car up in the air to gander her bits, we hung out in the waiting room, where fellow waiter-ers — a grandfather and his elementary son — started throwing things at me when my son and husband left for a bit. At first it was a gum wrapper, a he-did-it, no-he-did-it joke, but then a wad of trash (or money?) hit the wall by my head, and then shoes started getting tossed, though not directly at me. It was strange.
The other kids back-tracked their 20-mile lead to met us, and when we learned that the problem was much bigger than a quick fix (the turbo intercooler had come apart), we all piled into the truck (with two kids in the back) and zipped over to a rental, arriving right before closing.
The place had one little, and very uncomfortable, car, which we snatched right up, and then promptly drove off without my husband’s license. After we backtracked for the license, we got back out on the road for realsies.
And then, with signs for Buc-ee’s flashing past with increasing frequency, I suggested we stop. I could care less about the place — I hate the whack spelling and call it Boochies instead — but my husband has been begging to go to ever since we got one on the south side of town. Since this particular day, a day that was shaping up to be a record travel day (and did I mention it was my birthday?), had already been shot to pieces and then some, adding Consumer Central to the chaos felt like the right choice.
My verdict? I was impressed, but not smitten. For sure, the place was An Event, and the beaver chips were (better than) good, but it might take a few more visits to make me a convert.
The next day was full of wedding delights — A brunch! A wedding! Family!
The bride and groom . . . of two weeks before.
And then we packed into our cars once again and trundled our way back up the east coast.
As we approached the lot where our injured car awaited, the truck family contingency detoured to pick up a u-haul car trailer, and then they met us at the dealership where we loaded the car before continuing on.
There was only one other major mishap — or potential mishap. As we were zipping up the interstate in the left lane, a car suddenly pulled onto the highway from the median turnaround directly into the lane in front of us. My husband yelled, and our car rocked from side to side as he braked hard. No one was beside us, fortunately, and at the last second he whipped around the car.
We were quiet for a long time after that.
It’s good to be home.
This same time, years previous: our new names, sky nest, wanna place bets?, wedding buns, church, sunflowers, you’re invited…, welcome home to the circus, the myth of the hungry teen, a different angle, a lesson I’d rather skip, the quotidian (10.1.12), because reading books is dangerous, dumping: a list, a lot of babble and some cookies.
