The Zippy Red Car.....R. I. P.

And so, another used vehicle bites the dust.

Loren made it all the way down three and a half miles of treacherous gravel road, onto the blacktop....half a mile more....and then ka-BLOOEY, the transmission went out. It had been showing signs of wear, and surfing the drifts on those first three-plus miles probably did it in. The muffler can also be counted as a casualty, since it was observed hanging at a precarious angle.

Loren coaxed the little reprobate to some friends' house nearby, where it sits, lonely and forlorn, in their drive.

The ever untrepidacious Ma went off in the red-hooded blue Toyota to rescue her man.

I took Derek along in case we got stuck and needed help shoveling, or maybe just succumbed to the urge to push a certain decrepit car off of a cliff somewhere. Luckily for the car, it would be WAY too much trouble to scare up a drop-off in the immediate vicinity. (also along...a partial bag of Dove's Dark Chocolates, which could keep the two of us alive for at least an hour, or so)

Everyone is now safely home, with a more reliable means of transportation situated near the drive's entryway.

Oh yes, ALL of those drifts you see in the picture below are now history. Are you not glad Ma saved them in the annals of digitalism for all of posterity?

The kids were so depressed upon hearing all of the neighboring school closings, that I had pity and let them off their Saxon math for today. There was great rejoicing, a credible "wave," and proclamations of "Most Wondrous Mother of the Year, Nay Century."

I actually made up those last two, but let's just say, the kids were pleased.

This still leaves the little problem of Loren not getting in to work, and not being able to hear from his supervisor, who is out running a route, because they are short-handed and could really use some extra people to drive those nifty white trucks with the aesthetically pleasing color combination of purple and orange. (I mean, what was Fred Smith thinking?)

And so, with tomato soup heating on the stove, and the little kids outside digging tunnels in every available drift, we await the backside of "El Stormo."

We wait, we eat, and we think fondly of the zippy red car.

"We miss your rust, your "natural vents,"
third gear that wouldn't engage.
The air conditioner, gone kaput,
your hot and dusty ways.

We miss those ugly lights in front
that swivel from the hood,
Your cunning red, Toyota-ness,
We fear you're gone for good...unless we find out you're worth fixing up, again, but I seriously doubt it, and besides, it's time for lunch...."

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