Car trouble

Sitting in the summer house with friends yesterday, we told stories. I shared this tale of a misadventure many years ago…

I heard the engine roar as my husband waited for me in his new purchase, a 1977 Corvette. As I slid into the car, I grabbed onto the seat belt and strapped it firmly across my hips. Making a road hugging turn, we headed to a wedding.

When we arrived at the church, I pushed the release button on the seat belt; but it held secure. Then my husband leaned over and pushed the button, grabbing onto the belt and jerking it.

“Wait a minute,” he said. “I’m coming around.”

Opening the door, my husband knelt on the body frame and pulled with all his strength but to no avail.

“Listen, honey,” my husband said as he opened the T-top. “Maybe you can squeeze out of the belt, and I can climb on the roof and lift you out.”

“I’ll try,” I said feebly.

I pushed on the floorboards with my black high heels and willed my body upward. But the belt dug deeper into my flesh and would not let me go.

I began to panic. In a few minutes the bride would be walking down the aisle.

My husband lost his patience and began tugging with all his might. If the belt wouldn’t release, then he’d rip it right out. But it only rubbed and burned its pattern into my skin.

And that’s when I began to hyperventilate. I leaned out the car door as far as I could, gasping for air.

“Isn’t there a scissors or knife in the trunk?” I panted.

“Corvettes don’t have trunks,” he said, pacing up and down the sidewalk.

“Well maybe you could knock on a door and ask for something to cut me out of this thing,” I shrieked.

Just then a carpet company van came down the street.

Without thinking, my husband ran after it, hailing the driver. He pulled over and rolled down the window, and my husband blurted out, “I need a knife for my wife.”

Calming down, my husband began to explain…

“Don’t cut my dress!” I wailed, when my husband returned and sliced the belt with the borrowed carpet knife.

I was free.

Although we were very late, we saw that the bride was still standing by the church door.

Sitting in the pew, I read the wedding invitation: “Two lives, two hearts joined in friendship, united forever in love.”

“Just like us,” I thought to myself. “And I’m also joined to his car.”

Angels in disguise

 

 

I believe in angels.

Sometimes the unexpected happens, and the messenger appears.

Little did I know when I chose my vacation in January that it would be one of the hottest weeks on record.

Heading up north to escape the heat wave, we spent two days in the mountains of New Hampshire, where it felt like the Sahara.

Back at home, I went ahead with my well-laid plans, cleaning the basement and garage despite temperatures hovering in the mid-90s.

We ticked off yet another chore on the to-do list Saturday when we drove to the summer house to replace the lawnmower battery. The wet, leaden air made even the beach unbearable.

Finding no relief at the seaside, we decided to leave; but on our way home, the tire blew out on our old red Corvette.

For a few minutes, we were stunned, as we realized we could not drive on the rim and that we were baking in the sun.

Getting out of the car, we searched for the tire wrench; and that’s when the Good Samaritan pulled up behind us and offered to help.

The owner of an old Corvette himself, he crawled under the vehicle and spotted the spare, untouched since the day it left the factory in 1989.

When we couldn’t locate the jack, he offered to drive home, which he said was just two miles away, to retrieve his heavy-duty jack.

Carefully backing up, my husband parked near a hedge on a grassy area under a tree. He then began unscrewing the rusted bolt holding the spare.

That’s when the owner of the property we were squatting on came out of his house, and I explained about the flat. He invited me into his home, which he said was air conditioned, and offered the use of his air compressor to pump up the tire, but it was unsalvageable.

Removing the spare, my husband found the jack nestled in a black plastic bag atop it.

Meanwhile, the Good Samaritan reappeared with his jack, propped up the body, grabbed the wrench and removed the bolts. My husband handed him the tire, and in a few minutes we were ready to roll.

In less than half an hour, we were on the road again; but despite the traumatic ordeal of sustaining a tire blowout in extreme temperatures, we could not believe our good fortune.

Out of the blue, we were blessed by the kindness of strangers, angels in disguise.