Wiper Cost

When I first picked up my newer older van, the 96 Chevy which went to newer older van Heaven in Alger this past August, it needed windshield wiper blades. Therefore, off I went to the auto parts store for replacements.

In the parking lot I plucked the blade off the driver's side, the worst of the two, to measure it against the new ones. An attendant in the store asked me if he could help. "I need wiper blades," I explained. Then I was able to use one of those ever-so-clever Dad jokes which everyone enjoys. "Unless you can fix this one," I said, showing the young man the shredded old wiper. Humoring an old man, he politely answered no, although he was likely feeling sorry for my kids and grandkids, a thought he kindly kept to himself.

Hammering away on a computer keyboard he soon found the requisite part number. "We have super fantastic ultra reinforced life changing windshield wiper blades for $29.99!" he exclaimed with confidence.

Now it was time for the famous Spock raised eyebrow. "Young man, it's a vehicle which is 27 model years old. I'm not spending that kind of money on wiper blades."

Sheepishly smiling, he went back to his search. A minute later he offered, "We have the in-store brand for seven dollars, sir."

"Thank you. I'll take two," I replied. I mean, how life changing can windshield wipers be?

Long Gone

My newer older van took its final run yesterday. Although the transmission was out I could still manage low gear, so at about 20 miles per hour I guided it to the scrap yard four blocks away. Here's the van at her last stop.  Well, last stop with me at the wheel anyway. 

I don't think I've missed a vehicle so much. There were tears in my eyes as I drove. Hell, I had tears in my eyes when I realized the transmission had blown north of Alger because I knew what that meant, although I manned up by the time I parked it in the lot outside of the scrapyard office. I even drove past twice - twice - later in the day to see where it might be while in processing. I saw it the first time, lined up for whatever fate had in store alongside several other smaller cars. Silliness.

I made at least four Hessel trips with it, two to Newark, Ohio, one to Chester, West Virginia (sight of the Chester Casino incident with Mom and Dad) to deliver repaired snake cables, and two or three trips for business. The gas mileage was awful - about 13 MPG highway - but boy, did it ride well. I felt like I was guiding a battleship, but there's something to be said for being head and shoulders above traffic.

But, all good things. I did get $450 scrap value. Not bad for something you paid $500 for in the first place. I still had hoped to drive it another year or so just the same.

Yeah, making too big a deal of it. I know.

Adventure on M-33

My newer older van has gone to newer older van Heaven. Her transmission gave out as I was on my home from Hessel in Michigan's Glorious Upper Peninsula. Though the gas mileage was atrocious I loved driving that thing. 

I managed to get the van to a gas station, engine screeching as she tried to hold sixty, then forty, then thirty miles an hour before I was able to park her over to the side at a Marathon near Alger, Michigan. Taking my membership card from my wallet (I would burn my one free two hundred mile tow per year getting the car home) the first issue was getting AAA to understand where I sat. I didn't think 'a Marathon gas station at 2320 state route M-33 about a mile north of exit 212 of Interstate 75' would be that hard to understand. Indeed I thought it was quite precise. Yet the operator for some reason couldn't seem to grasp it. Yet I finally got through to her and was assured a truck would be there in about 45 minutes.

That's not bad, but I didn't completely trust AAA under the circumstances. I did a web search on my cell phone (imagine that, Grandpa Joe: calling road service from a phone in your car on something like the Internet...not that you would have. You would have rang one of us to come tow you just the same) and quickly found a nearby company. "You're Charles Cosgriff? An order just came in to us from AAA for you," I was told. "We'll be there shortly." Oh. Cool beans.

And they were. The newer older van was soon on the back of a flatbed tow truck and we were on our way.

As were neared Bay City, the driver received a call that the company had a pickup in Oscoda for towing to Warren, just above Detroit. Could he meet that wrecker and take both vehicles to the Detroit area? Yes he could; we pulled into a parking lot just off the freeway and waited. I can't say I wasn't disappointed with the delay, but I get it. Why should two drivers have to make a long tow when one was already headed the same direction?

The Oscoda truck was actually there very quickly (he was already en route to the D), gave us his tow, and headed back. It turns out he left too soon: the hydraulics went out on the truck I was with. He couldn't load the Oscoda car. The company sent another truck...who was unable to take two cars at once. Why even send him? Hell if I know. 

So a third tow truck was hailed. The drivers worried that they might not be able to easily get my newer older van off the original truck, what with the hydraulics out. Great. 

But somehow, and quite impressively to my small mind, they determined they could back one tow truck against the other and roll my newer older van from the hydraulic less vehicle onto the third truck's bed. Further adversity was saved!

And so fortunately was further adventure. About two and half hours later I was home, my newer older van parked for the last time next to my house (I had things to unload, and I think I can force her the quarter mile to a nearby junk yard on Monday or Tuesday). Still, I'm genuinely sad. The newer older van was very good to me. I'm gonna miss her.

Winter Storm Marty

I don't know exactly how much snow fell overnight in the D. The weathercasters were saying 4 to 8 inches were expected; my guess is 2 or 3 actual accumulation in my part of town. But I realize numbers will vary when you're making predictions over large areas such as southeast Michigan.

One thing though which shocks even me: I was looking forward to clearing it. Indeed, I was almost anxious. That was never as issue, oh, not so far back in Marty history. Yet yesterday before the first flake arrived, I found myself plotting my attack on the winter storm demon. I was almost relishing it.

I figured to get out and get started at 6:30. I was actually out and started at 6. Shoveling a path to the first of our three cars, I fired it up, cleared the windows, and made a wide path all around the car for easy access. Returning to the walks, I pushed and tossed the snow cover off of them, taking great pride in forming nice, solid lines at the edges. Add a layer of salt, and they were ready to be safely trod upon.

Now to the other cars, my new old van and my newer older van. Firing them up, I watched with delight as the ice melted off the windows. I soon drove both of them around the neighborhood (one at a time) to allow what bits of snow were still on them to blow off, driving through the alleys around the old barn so that they would be open for myself and my customers. 

Looking back upon that work, I can honestly say it didn't feel like a chore. I was, I am, rather too pleased with myself. This adulting thing isn't so bad if you just embrace it.

Follow Up

Yesterday I spoke about being at a hard rock show at the Upper Peninsula State Fair. Here's a little more.

You want to talk about a driving beat and harsh bass guitar licks? I was wearing a baseball cap during the performances, and the cap was vibrating on almost every song. Every time the drummer struck one of the 9,000 drums or cymbals on his set (when did rock music drum sets become so complicated?) or the bass player strummed a note, my cap literally vibrated along with it. 

Granted, we were pretty close to the stage (row 18 for what that's worth) and it was, at the risk of understatement, loud. But I never imagined a cap playing along to the beat.

I think my biggest fear, and me son Charlie expressed a similar concern afterwards, was whether my hearing would be affected. "ARE YOU HEARING OKAY, DAD?" he asked me as we got into the newer older van to go back to Hessel.

"YES, THE SHEARING WAS ALL RIGHT," I answered. 

No, it wasn't like that. We could each talk and hear normally, a fact that surprised the both of us.

Protesting What?

As I stood pumping gas into my new old van (as opposed to my newer older van you might recall) I noticed a home made sticker on the pump. It was very home made: they were the rectangular stickers we used to use to mark VHS tapes. There's no other employment for them these days I suppose.

Anyway, the sticker proclaimed 'philanthropy is not justice'. 

Hmm. Well, maybe not, but I think so. I mean, as philanthropy, which is what any one of us do when we contribute to a worthwhile cause, is a good thing, I'd call it justice in the sense that we should help those people and righteous causes in need. It's a kind of justice anyway.

What I can't figure out is what the author of the sticker is protesting. I mean, even if it's not justice, philanthropy is good, isn't it? So why appear to knock it at all?

I'm flabbergasted. But it's not like that hasn't happened before.