Last night, I rcvd a call from our dear neighbor, Becca. She returned home from Seattle to a fridge that was not working. Thank goodness her valuable caribou was stored in the deep freezer in the garage. I lumbered over with the cloth grocery bags and salvaged the rest of the food and produce. With Brad being gone and my recent trips to Anchorage and beyond, I had ample room in our fridge.
I cooked her the now defrosted pork chops and made some applesauce. After dining in a picturesque evening on the porch, she went home, clutching the cell phone-- willing the repair man to return her call.
Today, after finishing some important documents, I headed out to a series of errands: library, USPO, Chamber of Commerce, etc. I got into the bug and let down the parking brake, and it landed with a thud. Perplexed I tried to set it again, and the damn thing just dialed up and down on its own axis, resisting nothing, not even the cable to which it is supposed to be tied.
I carefully made my way to the local repair shop, with whom I have an appt in two wks. I convinced the owner to check out my car, for safety's sake. He assured me that my brake pads are adequate and that, yes, defintely, when in transit, the company who secured my car aboard the containers yanked on my brake so hard that they stressed the cable. This cable is now severed, and no, he could not get me in any earlier. I offered to drop off my car on Monday, on the off chance he may be able to squeeze me in...nada.
So, tonight, after hosting Roger and Margo for beers and eco-speak, I will make room in the garage to park the bug (read: move the boxes and paper still left over from the move and somewhat organize "storage" to fit in the bug), and I will drive Brad's truck until the bug's appt.
I pulled into the driveway just as Becca came home. She informed me that the compressor on switch had blown. A $24 part and $90 worth of labor, she is happy to deplete my fridge of its temporary contents. I can only hope that: not only will the repairs be that unexpensive but that the third "oops" happens far from here....and away from loved ones. Selfish, I know, but "it always seems to happen when their gone" as boat wives say....