The Rural Voice, 1989-02, Page 10fr
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8 THE RURAL VOICE
DRIVING AROUND
THE BEND
I've always found Super Wrench to
be reasonably tolerant, until middle-
aged maturity dropped on him like a
rock.
He's always overlooked or at least
excused my mishaps while behind the
wheel of a vehicle, as well he should.
Some of the motorized nightmares
we've owned are nothing to brag
about. I've left fenders on garage
doors, aerials on clotheslines, bumpers
in ditches, and rear-view mirrors
decorating trees.
Somehow these extra parts were
never necessary when taking meals to
the oat field or toting bags of feed
from one farm to the other. The fam-
ily car was never any younger than a
second grader and always big enough
to offer plenty of protection between
me and what I was running into.
A few months ago I quit working
for Super Wrench full-time. He was
only giving three meals plus half a
bed, so I found someone who had real
money. I also commandeered the
family demolition tank.
In the beginning it was tough to
justify going to work. The car inhaled
gas like an addict, and half my pay
cheque was left at the pumps. The
other half of the cheque was being
donated to the police force. Super
Wrench unfortunately opened the
letter from some officious department
objecting to my method of driving. It
seems that I'm almost to the point of
having to explain why I need a
licence. Super Wrench was aghast.
"What in the world comes over
you when you drive out the lane?" he
demanded.
"Nothing," I replied. "I just don't
want the officers to think I'm easy, so
I give them a run for their money
when they show off with their flashers
going."
Super Wrench just shook his head
in disgust and went into action. With-
in a few days I had "my own car."
What a thrill! If I held my breath, I
could just fill the front seat, and if I
didn't wear a coat I could fit my purse
beside me. It resembled my washing
machine, with wheels.
Super Wrench obviously could
only afford a two -door, so if anyone
wanted in the back seat we'd have to
break the back windows with a tire
iron and use a shoehorn to slide the
passenger in. The front seat slides
enough to maybe gain room for five
pounds, but the lever is hidden
somewhere in the front and can only
be reachld in prayer position with
long -handled tongs.
Super Wrench informed me that
the car has an unbelievably exciting
feature. Front -wheel drive. He was
right. The dentist could hardly believe
I could do so much damage biting into
a steering wheel as I braked to save a
bunny. And if I really concentrate, I
can count all the furry legs on a cater-
pillar crawling on the road just in front
of the hood. I don't mean to be
ungrateful. I don't mind putting the
groceries on the roof of the car when
they won't all fit inside, but I do mind
driving something the dog can chase,
outrun, and bury in the flower bed.
What hurts the most are the
smirking faces of the officers I once
made sweat. They're still sitting in
those sneaky places, ready with their
little radar guns, but I can't get up
enough speed to make them even look
at me.
Super Wrench has certainly solved
what he considered a problem, but I'm
really worried. If middle age earns me
what I'm almost driving now, what's
he going to get for me once I have to
rely on a pension? Surely there's a
law against little old ladies zooming
around on skateboards?0
Gisele Ireland's latest book, Brace
Yourself, is available for $7 from
Bumps Books, Teeswater, NOG 2S0.
r