I’m beginning to anniversary myself. Those who have been reading Middle Passages since the start, might remember this post I wrote last March, Getting Back in Gear, in which I almost killed our car engine in my quest not to miss a networking meeting.
I do laugh about it now--some. Except, when, as a result of that day, even though there is a fair amount of snow and ice around, I do everything I can to avoid putting our 1996 Jeep Cherokee Sport (um, yea, still my method of transportation) into four-wheel-drive. Memories of how close I came to burning out the engine or maybe stripping the gears are too strong--although, come to think of it, success in either regard would be one way to force the issue, related to new wheels, that we’ve so successfully avoided for the last three years.
Just so you know though, this is not the forum in which I intend to discuss the groaning noise the car made for a brief period as we were traveling in four-wheel-drive through the snow this weekend—Mr. Middle Passages at the wheel, thank you very much. And, in case you are wondering, nor will there be dialogue pertaining to the yellow parking light cover that came loose though still attached by a wire, flapping all the way down the highway the same afternoon. Who knew that at sixty-miles-per-hour, a small plastic rectangle could emit a sound like a helicopter taking off? Oh, right. We're aren't going to talk about that, nope, we aren't. Today's topic is simply the use or non-use of the gear box.
Right. So--as a result of the aforementioned snow over the weekend, the slight incline in our driveway has frozen and thawed and become slick enough that after I stopped at the mailbox at the bottom of the driveway on my way in today, I couldn’t get enough traction to drive up our little hill. The right answer was four-wheel-drive. The wrong answer was spinning the wheels, then backing up and gunning it, spinning the wheels again, backing up and gunning it, spinning one more time, backing up and forgetting to look through my rear window.
I missed the car driving up the street behind me--by mere inches, yes. But you know what they say. An inch is as good as a mile.
Now that I've calmed myself, it’s time to go back out and pick up my daughter. Good thing the garage is stocked with barrels of sand.
What kind of trouble have you discovered, when you've been afraid to do the right thing?