Street Level

The teenager foresaw it.

He was the first one to note that the Bass family had actually left at the appointed time for two weeks at the lake. This never happens. He wondered aloud what it could mean.

Just outside Kamloops, the CD player died. Now, for a family that must travel to the strains of Steely Dan, CCR and Metallica, this was very, very bad.

If only we’d known.

Somewhere south of Clinton, the husband said he could smell smoke. Ever the intrepid reporter, I suggested there must be a wildfire somewhere nearby. But, being cautious car owners, we stopped in Clinton, looked under the car, saw a teensy-weensy drip that could not be identified and one bigger one, definitely cold water — has to be the air conditioning.

Right?

If only. Ten minutes north of Clinton, smoke is pouring out the back end of the car. We pull off into a rest area, wait for the white puffs to abate, put the car into gear — and don’t go.

I’ve never seen my hubby stand at the side of a highway, right thumb high in the air and it’s a sight I never want to see again. Fortunately, he looked so darn, well, out of place that the nice man whose car was the only one at the stop facing south took one look, sighed and told me not to fear. He’d rescue him and take him back to Clinton.

I got my first sunburn of the summer sitting on a picnic table with the kids, the dog — and a dead car.

It took more than an hour but eventually, the hubby was back with Joe the mechanic. Joe’s no slouch; he could see the trail of transmission fluid for a long ways back on the highway, curving to the right and stopping in a puddle under the car.

Up goes the hood, in go six litres of transmission fluid — and none comes out. This looks good, but no, Joe says we need to let the car cool off for several hours. So he tows us back to Clinton, we wait . . . and wait . . . and wait some more.

Sure enough, several hours later, the car’s got its gears back, we all pile in and off we go.

Made it about 45 kilometres when, somewhere on a two-lane stretch of asphalt surrounded by nothing but trees, we learned Joe wasn’t really right about that waiting thing.

This time, a couple in a truck — no doubt seeing the look of complete anger and despair fighting for space on my face, stopped and took the hubby off to the nearest town, 100 Mile House.

The boys, dog and I sat in the car.

And waited.

And waited.

And waited some more.

After about two hours, I couldn’t get the plot of Texas Chainsaw Massacre out of my head. Desperation took over and I decided there had to be some spot, some tiny piece of land, somewhere on that highway where cellphone service could be found.

Apparently it’s an area about one foot square near a break in the trees. Phone the hubby. Tidying up the language, the conversation went like this:

“Sweetheart, where are you?”

“I’m in 100 Mile House at the Ford dealership. It’s closed.”

“Sweetheart, where is the tow truck?”

“It’s coming. They’ve only got one and it’s somewhere on Highway 24 but the driver said he’d get to you soon as he could.”

“Sweetypiehunnybunch, might you have some idea how long we will get to enjoy the wonderful stifling heat here in this scenic area of our wonderful province?”

“No idea. So sorry.”

“Well, snookums, guess I’ll go back to the wonderful sense of heat and boredom that I so very much wanted to experience on this vacation.”

Another hour went by. We continued to wait.

And wait.

Tow truck arrived. Up went the car onto the back of the truck.

He looked at us.

“How’re you all getting to town?”

Well, gee, I thought you’d be driving us too. Apparently I have thought wrong. How best to express this concern?

“With you, I thought.”

“The three of you and the dog too? I don’t know . . .”

Those of you who know me can imagine the verbal debate going on in my head. This is a time that requires tact, diplomacy, a bit of dumb-blonde-please-rescue-me stuff that I don’t find easy to pull off.

Before the role-playing had to begin, though, the driver asked me if it was my cab pulling up behind us.

I thought he was being a smart-ass and was about to reply in an appropriate manner when . . .

“Daddy to the rescue!” the youngest yelled out.

And sure enough, the hubby — having heard the actual words that were spoken in the tidied-up version earlier in this column, was worried that perhaps mom was losing it a bit out on the highway with the dog, the kids, the dead car

Waiting

And waiting.

So, fulfilling his role as pater familias, he had hopped into a cab and headed out to rescue his family and get them to 100 Mile.

Dad and the dog were accepted into the tow truck. Cabbie, boys and I headed to the Ramada Inn.

Now, you’d think a hotel room in 100 Mile wouldn’t be that hard to get. Not for us, though. We chose to break down on the weekend of the annual show and shine.

The Ramada was full, the Super 8 was basically full — that last available room suddenly wasn’t when the desk clerk saw the dog — so off we went to the 99 Mile Motel.

New movie plotline popped into my head — The Devil’s Rejects.

But the place was clean and they didn’t mind the dog.

Time to unload the clothes since we’re gonna be there for a while.

Off comes the boys’ suitcase.

Next comes the hubby’s.

Mom’s is the beige one.

It’s not there.

Apparently it was never packed into the car.

The hubby looks at me.

He looks at the car.

He looks back at me.

Back at the car.

It’s hard to read what’s going through his mind but I’m sure it wasn’t eased when I broke out into that laughter that’s reserved for those times when you think nothing more can go wrong — and something does.

Sunday, we discovered The Bargain! Store, which had a sale of women’s summerwear.

Got some nifty shorts, tops, a bathing suit, all those things that were sitting at home, carefully folded in the beige suitcase.

Monday morning, 7:30 a.m., the hubby and I are at Sunrise Ford, peering in the windows.

The office doesn’t open until 8 a.m., so we pressed our downcast faces up against the door and stared until someone opened up.

“That’s our dead car over there. How much is a transmission?”

He told us.

“How much is that car in the used-car lot there?”

He told us.

Didn’t open a door, didn’t even test-drive it. Told the salesman — a former Kamloops cop, he said — we were trusting him.

“Sold,” my sweet hunnybunch said.

And then we were off for what remained of a peaceful two weeks at the lake.

No more problems could possibly happen, could they?

Ah, that, as they say, is another story.

dale@kamloopsthisweek.com

Posted by Dale at 10:59 a.m. Comments