Winter refreshed itself these last several days. I would that Mother Nature do it gently. I went outside, once to walk the beagle, who started limping at the sub-zero cold, then rallied to hunt for morsels beneath the one-foot snow cover. The walk was extended, as Skittles planned her chore-walk, delaying the movement of her bowels, thus prolonging her walk.
Snickers is the puppy, a black Scottish Terrier/Corgi mix with spunk to spare. He's 7 months old and has a lot to learn regarding the protocol and strategy of walks. He does his business quickly then jumps over snowbanks on the edge of the road, into the deep snow. Most of life is play time for him and soon his paws get cold and his eyes plead that I carry him.
Snickers had the neutering appointment at the Range Animal Clinic in forty-five minutes so I set about to warm up my pickup truck. The Ford F-150 had no energy and only groaned listlessly for two seconds. The truck was not going to start. I was shocked. I've had this truck for eight years and it has never failed to start.
I made an allowance for my big buddy: this is a different kind of winter than the last twenty or so years. the kind of winter that cancels school and various civic events. It is a psychotic winter that was so warm two weeks ago that the Sisu ski race was cancelled. Then it abruptly changed and all last night it rammed a Siberian wind through my poor truck's grille, freezing the life out of the battery and congealing the oil to resist the rotation of the crankshaft.
Nonetheless Snickers had an appointment so I put my battery charger to work and went inside because I couldn't feel my face anymore. I called the clinic and told them I'd be late by half an hour because my truck wouldn't start. The woman on the line with me said, "It's important that you get Snickers here as soon as possible."
"Yes, I realize this. I'm charging the truck battery right now. That should do it."
I bundled up again in my ski bibs and snorkel parka, put on my Sorel boots and choppers to protect my severely arthritic hands and ventured forth. The truck seat was as hard as wood. The key turned stiffly and I heard a groan, then the engine sputtered and wailed in protest. I stroked the accelerator gently and the Ford kept running. I took my foot off the pedal and said, "Thank you, Lord!"
Then my eyes gravitated to the dashboard- no charging, no oil pressure, no fuel and zero RPM. I quickly shut off the engine in alarm. Maybe if I restarted it the electronics would reset. I tried and the battery was comatose.
I put the battery charger back in business and headed for the great indoors, feeling my asthma flare. I would call the clinic to cancel, then call Lois at work to inform her.
The wood fire probably needed more fuel so I tended to my wood-fired boiler. I paused in front of the open furnace door before throwing in the chunks of maple-wood. The warmth from the glowing coals was comforting, therapeutic to arthritic hands. A quick visual inventory of my wood supply underscored the severity of the weather.
Staring into the fire I realized my need of expert mechanical help. I would call Paul, a good mechanic and trustworthy, reasonable, champion of proletarians with aged vehicles. He has doctored my sick vehicles for decades. Amazing what staring into a fire does.
I told Paul of my plight.
"Bring it down if you get it going again and I'll have a look."
After another half-hour I turned the key again and the engine groaned to life again. The gauges all worked and I resisted the idea to call Paul and tell him my truck was all right. I got my frozen F-150 into Gene's Service and popped the hood. I got out of the truck and breathed in the ancient grease and oil that had permeated the concrete floor. This is the way a service station should smell.
Paul stood on a plastic crate to examine the engine inside my high-profile truck. He applied his electrical meter to my battery and scowled.
"She's low, George- 9.6 volts." Paul's assistant hooked up their godzilla battery charger, all 100+ amps. My charger output was 6 amps.
I worried since the alternator should have charged the battery somewhat during warm-up and the drive to Gene's Service. Paul turned his attention to the alternator and instructed his assistant to 'start 'er up.'
Paul leaned so deep inside the engine area it looked as though he would fall in. He told his assistant to shut off the engine.
"No alternator output," Paul pronounced his observation so gravely that I imagined a $300 + repair bill. The dreaded, 'you need a new schitzelfritzel' popped up in my mind. Paul continued his examination of the alternator for a few minutes.
"Here's your problem-a loose field wire on the alternator, see?"
I climbed up and saw the loose wire, the schitzelfritzel fear giving way to relief.
Paul wouldn't charge me for his time and expertise so I handed him a five-dollar bill.
"I appreciate it, Paul. Have coffee and pie on me.
Several hours later I realized that God had given me grace. I usually get excited, frustrated, angry and I had been excited and frustrated but the grace kept me from losing my temper over my recalcitrant truck. I didn't pray for it. It was just there. I can't figure it out so I'll just accept it.
Thank you, Lord.
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