(Tip for bloggers: when words fail you, take a road trip. I've NEVER come home from a road trip completely uninspired).
As many of you know, we took a trip back to the community where I grew up this weekend to catch up with some old friends and make a few new ones. We left at 4:30 in the morning on Sunday, because I've found that leaving at such hours virtually guarantees 4+ hours of sleep from your children (especially the younger ones, who complain the most and take the most potty breaks). I was a little concerned about some electronic problems with the car, but was reminded by a friend that you're never guaranteed not to break down on a road trip. So we set out, with just over 200 miles to go.
The first thing I noticed was that the gas prices dropped 15 cents as soon as you crossed the state line. No, Texas doesn't have high gas prices (rolls eyes). But we made it to about 40 miles from our destination with no problems.
I stopped to gas up, though, and notice my left front tire is low. VERY low. In fact, it was nothing short of remarkable that we didn't run flat on the way in. So I take it to the first air pump. No air. Across the street to that station's air pump. No fitting on the hose (small towns: you wonder why you get the reputation as "hick" towns? Take note; this is why). I come back over to the first station, and the clerk tells me there is air by the diesel pumps. So I head over there.
As I'm pumping air in, I can hear it escaping. So I decide, with 40 miles to go it would be more prudent to ride it in on my "donut" spare, and patch the tire when I get there. So I pull out the donut spare.
I must digress at this point to tell you that we had, some months prior, gotten our tire replaced and found out a couple weeks after the fact that the WalMart employee apparently was unable to figure out that the spare belonged back in the trunk. I went back in, and mentioned it to the TLE manager, they found "my" spare, and returned it to the car. Trouble is, it wasn't the right spare, as I was soon to find out.
The spare fit on the lugs and everything, but as soon as I tried to drive off, it became glaringly apparent it was not made for that car. I got back out, got a can of fix a flat, and decided I was going to limp it in. I was close enough that I knew the area well; there was a station 6 miles up the road, another 4 miles after that, then in about 10 mile increments on in. We'd be able to make it, hopefully without any further drama. But if 36 years of life experience has taught me anything, it has taught me this: Gideon does NOT take a trip without drama. Period. Doesn't happen.
As I was putting the tire back on, though, I looked at the back tire. Mind you, both of these are newer tires, with less than 15,000 miles on them. Steel was showing on the inside of the tread of the tire. Ordinarily, I wouldn't be as nervous about it as I was, but travelling as I was without a spare made me a LOT more nervous. So shortly after we got into town, we headed to WalMart. A 2 1/2 hour wait, they told us. At least they were honest about it.
After 1/2 hour, the technician called me back. He couldn't patch the front tire; we'd have to replace it. The problem is, I didn't have enough money to replace both. I could patch one and replace the other, but not replace both. And we didn't have our warranty paperwork in the car, to prove that the tires were, indeed, covered. So we left WalMart in search of used tires. Every used tire store we could find was closed, so we went back to the foster farm where I had lived for 2 years to see if we could get some help. We were sent 5 miles out in the country to a home 1/2 mile off the highway guarded by a couple of pit bulls and a few dogs of indeterminate heritage that screamed out two words: "big" and "mean", the latter with emphasis. I'm not sure, but I think I saw a hint of Grizzly somewhere in one of those mutts. We hollered for the owner, but he didn't show up, so I didn't venture towards the door. I've seen "Cujo" too many times to fall victim to his bastard kin in some Oklahoma pasture.
The tire place in town that my former foster father recommended was likewise a bust. You probably don't need to stretch the imagination much to envision the tire technician there. All you need to have done is seen all three "Blue Collar Comedy Tour" movies, "Joe Dirt", and "Deliverance", and you have enough information to satisfy a police sketch artist. But, when you're in a bind, even inbreds can fix a tire. Problem is, he didn't have any in my size. "Have 'm in by Tuesday", he said through a wad of chaw that was desperately straining to be released.
So back to WalMart to replace the leaky tire and take our chances with the one that's not leaking yet. All told, 3 hours spent at a WalMart Supercenter, 2 hours spent on back roads looking for that elusive (and apparently endangered) species, the "mid 90's Buick tire", and 5 children growing highly impatient every time we passed a park or a restaurant. After WalMart, we headed to the park for the Shakespeare play to come later (performed by my old community theater colleagues from *ahem* younger days), and decided to wait rather than tour the rest of the city. The tour would have to wait for another day.