I was tucking in my shirt when Matt walked past our bedroom already dressed for Easter dinner at my cousin Jenniferís. ìHey, Matthew, knowing what we know now about the BMW, and given the work weíve put into it, can you believe we drove that car all the way to Minuteman (where he took his auto mechanics course) last summer?î

ìNo,î he answered. ìHow about if I drive it to Newton? I could follow you.î Honest to god, although the idea had occurred to me, it wasnít implied in my question,

I thought, if he doesnít break down, he could show off his car to the Paciís. If it does pop a radiator hose, or the fan blade spins off, weíd park it and pick it up on the way back. Doable, although anxiety provoking. But for Diane, it was a flat out bad idea. She said, we should drive together and discuss Mattís summer plans, if his car goes kaput, weíll be late, and most importantly, we had agreed that he could drive the BMW around town, but not on the highway. I had to admit, she was right on all those points, especially keeping the car off the highway. But what did I do after we pulled out of the driveway, caravan-style? I sealed the bad deal when I violated another sacrosanct rule. I called Matt on his cell phone. But how else to tell him to watch his temperature gauge? I didnít have to turn my head to feel the barrage of eyeball-launched daggers from my lovely wife.

The trip, with Matthew behind us, was a frosty one, until we pulled onto the off ramp from route 128 and onto route 30, a few short miles from Easter dinner. I was as surprised as Diane was happy that weíd made it. When we finally drove into Jenniferís driveway, Mattís custom exhaust burbling, I naively thought Matt and I would do some serious palm slapping. Instead, ìDad, you drive like a drunk. Donít you know what a lane is? And, you drove so slow I thought Iíd go insane.î

ìWait a minute. Diane, a few minutes before, told me how delighted she was that I could be good driver.î Diane thinks driving the speed limit is being a good driver.

Diane corrected me, ìNo, I said I was surprised that you could drive carefully,î

Yeah, okay.


Side by side with Vic’s car. Note Matt’s new tail pipe.
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Liz, Vic, Jennifer and James
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I was stuffed, happy, and over confident on our return trip. When Diane suggested taking the lazy route, 117, to avoid this commuter clogged highway with the monster-sized SUVís threatening to squash Mattís car, I shrugged her off. Again, I shouldnít have. Maybe two miles past 117, my cell rang. ìDad, we have to stop, the fan blade is making a terrible noise.î

ìAll right,î I replied, and dready thoughts instantly invaded my brain – pistons popping through the hood, the fan blade impaled in the radiator – but there was nothing I could do but drive on. We were on 128 near the route 2 interchange – without a breakdown lane. If we pulled over, weíd all be dead. And I knew route 2 provided no safe haven until the first farm stand after the highway narrows. Thatís when the grassy, almost green median that separates the off ramp from route 2, beckoned. Instead of following the curve of the road, I drove straight (something I had always wanted to do) and easily bounced over the curb and onto the grass. I worried, briefly, about Mattís low slung car, but there he was right behind me, and there was the noise he had to listen to – an awful, cyclical, banging metallic sound. Sounded less like a fan blade, and more like the valve clatter Adam has been warning us about. As if those valves had shattered and were bouncing around inside the valve cover.

However, with the hood up, Matt instantly spied the problem. A long grounding bolt had worked its way loose, and was sitting atop, and interfering with the alternator fly wheel. As the alternator spun, each nub of the fly wheel would hit the loose bolt, sending that metallic clanging throughout the car. This was the best of all scenarios, and once we removed the bolt altogether, we were ready to resume our trip home.

Nica

Matt told everyone at Easter dinner about his plans to go to Nicaragua. They responded as most people do. ìOh, youíre going with a school or church group?î Anita, Vicís sister, who lived in Venezuela for many years, was the most excited. She offered to help Matt with his Spanish, before and after his trip. Generous Dan and Linda sent money to cover transport costs from the airport in Managua to Esteli for both Matt and Hil.

Camping

I sent the boys this camping list and I just received this from cousin Jennifer who is an executive vice president for Sappi Paper: “Now, on the trip to Maine, my guy in Skowhegan is advising against it, unless you have “inside” info and advice. Here’s why: Still two feet of ice on Moosehead Lake and south into Rangely lake district. A couple feet of snow in the woods still. On the Kennebec River, you may encounter ice flows and high risk of hypothermia if you fall in. It is predicted to rain this weekend, so may be somewhat better conditions, but still…….Can you find a safer place to go?” She sounds a little like my sister, Joan, doesn’t she?
How did all these worry warts invade my family?