I had to go out the other day to do a grocery run to a special store I haven’t been to in almost eight weeks. It was the first time I’ve been in my car for a while, so I was enjoying just driving along listening to the songs on my iPhone, when a timely question was posed from an unexpected source.
Some Background
When I used to drive the Grey Ghost (aka Good Girl), I would listen to my iPod all the time. Remember, Good Girl was so old (2005) that she hadn’t come with a standard connection to electronic devices. She had a cassette tape deck and a CD player. So a few years later, my guys bought me an upgraded speaker system and a connection to my iPod for my birthday or Mother’s Day, I can’t remember which. But I do know I made very good use of it.
It wasn’t until Karl died, though, that I started listening to my iPod with it set on ‘random.’ I have a collection of well over 3,000 songs I’ve accumulated over the past 15 years or so, most contributed by my three sons. After losing Karl, I was so numb I couldn’t make a choice of what to listen to if my life depended on it. So I set it on random.
And that’s when I discovered his easiest – and most effective – means of communicating with me.
Quick Search
I just did a quick search of all my blog posts and I apparently have never written about this before. I’m astonished. Honestly, I thought for sure that I’d shared this cherished aspect of my life with all of you already.
Well, realizing this at this late stage of the game makes me see that I need to write about this in more depth another time.
The point of tonight’s post, though, was to share with you a song Karl brought to my attention yesterday, when I was in the car. As usual, I was sort of half listening to what was playing and then drawn up suddenly when I realized what the lyrics were actually saying.
It’s not just the question posed by the title of the song. It’s the lyrics as a whole and their eerie applicability to the precise situation we’re facing globally. Right now.
Turns out the song was published in 1970. Huh. Who’d have thought Chicago would be so prescient?
As soon as I realized what the lyrics were saying, I knew I wanted to share the song – and the timely question – with all of you. Because I feel this is precisely what we all need to contemplate and decide.
The fate of our country, and quite possibly the world, relies on us getting this right. And I can’t help but feel Karl sees all of this from a different perspective – and is making an effort to get our attention.
Life after death? No, I’m not going to write about an experience I may have had that convinced me that life here on Earth does not end when our physical bodies stop working. And yes, I’ve had enough experiences – direct experiences – with people who no longer reside within a body to know this is not simply wishful thinking.
And no, I’m not going to write about what transpired today in our national political arena. Although if I’m honest, there were a handful of people who made remarkably powerful and courageous decisions and expressed themselves most eloquently in acting on those choices. I may write about them some other day, because their actions and words were inspiring and gave me hope that all is not lost in our country.
No, this post is dedicated to Good Girl a/k/a the Grey Ghost – my 2005 Prius. She of the Red Triangle of Death posts. I don’t even think I wrote about the fact that she had her odometer replaced after it got stuck at 299,999. I needed a new odometer installed in order to pass inspection last year!
Mourning
Yes, I know. Assigning anthropomorphic characteristics to ‘inanimate’ objects may seem ridiculous. But driving in a car every day for 15 years, having this vehicle be the common denominator of so many profound life experiences: commuting to Philadelphia (when I wasn’t taking my beloved Septa train!) when I worked at the Women’s Law Project, rendezvousing with son Karl at the Clinton bus station at all hours as he attended NYU and afterward, driving to and from the University of Chicago for another son’s educational adventures, trips to Penn State and Susquehanna University, going on vacation to Cape Cod, innumerable trips, near and far, to soccer games, musicals, and track meets, both high school and collegiate…these experiences leave a mark. We had a relationship.
Yes, Good Girl, a/k/a the Grey Ghost, has seen me through a ton of life experiences. I distinctly remember getting into her after receiving the call from my husband Karl telling me that our son had died. I remember sitting in her, beside the creek (my beloved Tohickon) innumerable times over the past 15 years – but I particularly recall the moment I sat in her, facing the Tohickon, and calling my niece, Ellen, to tell her Karl was gone. I don’t know why I remember that particular conversation, but it remains seared in my mind. Every time I pass the specific spot in which I parked, I recall that conversation.
I remember picking Karl up one time after a particularly hard time he’d had while in NYC. I could feel his misery as we crossed the bridge from Frenchtown, NJ into Pennsylvania. He loathed his predicament at that moment in time. I felt it then and I remember it distinctly now.
Honoring Her Time
More recently, I remember her freaking me out with the Red Triangle of Death midway on my journey as I drove the 12 hour trek from North Carolina to Pennsylvania. But even more amazingly, I remember her mysteriously refraining from blaring the RT of D after I asked her to just get me home that evening and not strand me 350 miles from nowhere.
My Grey Ghost, my trusty companion on so many journeys both physical and otherwise, started giving me signals upon entering 2020. I knew her ticks and groans. I could tell when things weren’t right. And a couple of times, recently, she hesitated. She caught her breath ever so slightly and I wondered if I’d have to pull over and give her Last Rites on the side of Route 611.
The service people at Thompson Toyota were gentle with both Grey Ghost and me, replenishing her fluids and giving her boosts of automotive energy cocktails that kept her going for just a little bit longer. Alas, her head gasket would cost too much to replace. It was only a matter of time. She was, in her own way, placed on her own form of hospice.
I listened to my Good Girl. I knew she didn’t want to strand me somewhere. I could feel her time was perilously close. Indeed, once I registered that feeling deep within my bones, I had to act upon it; I cleaned her out. All of my reusable grocery bags and the couple of blankets I had in the back in case of emergency were brought into the house. All the kitschy stuff I’d accumulated over the years and stuffed into the glove box or console compartment: cleaned out. I even removed the EZ Pass from its Velcro nest at the crest of my windshield.
Within a day, the perfect replacement manifested itself. You can’t make this stuff up.
Resurrection
Best of all, my Good Girl, my Grey Ghost – instead of giving up the ghost, will be given the unique opportunity to become bionic. To resurrect herself in a way almost no other vehicles ever get the chance to do.
It just so happens that our family’s trusted mechanic expressed a desire to have a Prius of his own to tinker with. He happened to mention this to Karl quite randomly (as if!) within days of my decision to replace Good Girl. Our mechanic is amazingly brilliant with cars. He wants to figure out how to make a regular Prius (which is a hybrid) an all-electric vehicle.
It was too great a resolution to pass up. My Grey Ghost would get a chance at resurrection, and we could give a guy whose kept so many of our vehicles running and on the road over the years a chance to indulge his curiosity and creativity. Win/win.
Not many cars, especially those with 312,856 miles on them, get to dodge the crusher and perhaps – just maybe – get a chance to become bionic. But my Good Girl, my Grey Ghost, just might live to see another day: gain life after death – resurrected.
Old Photo of Red Triangle of Death – Photo: L. Weikel
Quick Update on Good Girl
Yeah…you guys have probably all forgotten my encounters with the Red Triangle of Death (aka the RToD or RT of D) back in the early months of this year. I’ll bet you may even have thought I was referring to Sheila with that title. She’s not a good girl! (Just kidding…but I am still miffed with her for going on walkabout yesterday.)
Actually, I’d pretty much forgotten all about the RToD as well. My Prius, aka “Good Girl,” has been driving like a champ since we finally got her correctly diagnosed back in March.
It’s funny how that works. I don’t know about you, but I don’t hang on to stuff much. OK, maybe sometimes. For a day or two. But lest you think I’m some chill person who walks through life forgiving every transgression and beatifically bestowing blessings on everyone who crosses my path: NO. That’s not what I mean.
By ‘not hanging on to stuff,’ I mean when something is awry in my life, I’m on it. I’m all about rooting out its source, exposing it to the light, cleaning it out, and healing it. That goes for painful or uncomfortable issues or experiences in my life, such as feeling the intense aggravation and anxiety that comes when your car suddenly screeches out a hellacious beep and flashes a bright red triangle (with an exclamation point within it, just to drive home the point that it’s an emergency! OMG!), and then piles on with a ‘check engine’ light appearing on your dashboard.
In other words, once Thompson Toyota took care of my RToD, I was a happy camper. I did not give the RToD a single additional thought. Nope. I did not waste even one more brain cell on retaining that terrible sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach when that sucker would, out of the blue, resurface on my dashboard.
It’s Been Six Months
I’ve been screech and RToD-free for six months. In some cultures, that would at least earn me a sticker or something. Better than any sticker, though, it bestowed upon me utter peace of mind.
There’s nothing better than getting into a car upon which you owe no car payments, having it start up like a charm, and even better, drive like a dream. I have to say (as I’ve said before): I love my Prius.
So imagine that diarrhea feeling I got when, shortly after leaving NYC after seeing The Hu, as it was closing in on midnight and we were barreling home along Route 78, all of a sudden <<EEEEEE>> the RToD and its accompanying screech lit up the dashboard and grated on my ears.
“Uuuuuugggghhhh,” I groaned out loud to Karl. “Not again.”
This had to be related to the extremely unpleasant experience on the drive to NYC earlier that evening when my air conditioning suddenly stopped blowing cold air. It was blowing all right, but without any ‘conditioning;’ it was simply issuing forth bland, mid-temperature air. My heart sank when that happened, but I’d let it go, figuring (a) it’s almost winter anyway; and (b) maybe it just needed to be ‘charged.’ I’d definitely decided I wasn’t going to worry about it.
Loss of Power
And then – adding insult to injury, as we were in the middle of nowhere at that point, a no-man’s-land between Newark and the intersection of I-78 and I-187 – my car suddenly stopped accelerating.
“Ooooooooh, this isn’t good,” I said to Karl as I put my clicker on and pulled into the far right hand lane. “All of a sudden she’s not accelerating anymore.”
“Oh great,” was Karl’s scintillating response as the Prius gradually started slowing down.
“Well, wait,” I said. I couldn’t discern what the difference was, but now it felt like it might be sustaining power. Not accelerating, but no longer losing power either.
We were both quiet for a few minutes as we remained in the ‘slow lane’ and let the Prius have a little breathing room.
RToD Strikes Again
Lucky for us, it didn’t reiterate that hiccup of power again. We made it home Tuesday night, no longer experiencing any further deceleration or ‘loss of power.’ And I have no explanation whatsoever of what that was about. But that doesn’t mean we escaped the RToD. Oh no. Nope.
The RToD screeched at us intermittently the entire drive home. And the ‘check engine’ light that went on never went out again. It was definitely there to stay.
So tomorrow, I have an appointment. I’m really hoping for another miracle. It’s amazing how quickly I forgot all those awful feelings around thinking and fearing my car might be on its last legs. I guess there’s a lot to be said for being ‘in the moment.’
Just one of those things, I guess. We never know when the RToD is going to come screeching back into our lives.
“I AM a Good Girl, Mommy!” – Photo: L. Weikel, Attitude: All Sheila
Dropped the Grey Ghost (she of the Red Triangle of Death fame) off at the Toyota dealership today. She’s going to get a good once-over.
She’s been driving me to distraction lately (while nevertheless continuing to drive me to my destinations, thankfully). But I promised her about ten days ago that I would take her back to her Makers.
Ha ha.
No, seriously; I did promise I’d take her back to the place where we bought her and let them go over her carefully before making any rash moves.
So this is her spa-time.
I Need Spa-Time Too
I have to say, I’m still not feeling quite back to myself yet. I don’t know if it’s a hangover from the events of last Friday or if I’m just picking up on some seriously freaked out vibes ‘in the ethers’ over, well, everything that’s going on in the world. I have to say, I cannot remember ever feeling this anxious over such an extended period of time. (And by that I mean a couple of days as opposed to hours. I do not tend to be an anxious person, luckily for me.)
Hopefully I’m just wound a little tight right now.
I’ll keep you posted.
Here’s hoping the Grey Ghost (a/k/a ‘Good Girl’) still has another 92,000 miles in her. (I’d love her to make it to 400,000!)
Things are getting a little intense. To be accurate, they’ve been getting more and more intense for weeks, but good grief!
Just to recap, I’ve been having issues with Good Girl, my wonderful Prius with whom I do not want to part. A lot of my resistance has to do with my slightly competitive nature. Not that I’m competing with anyone outside of myself. Rather, I’m motivated to see just how many miles I can get out of her.
Karl and I pride ourselves on taking good care of our vehicles. We’ve managed to get hundreds of thousands of miles out of every car we’ve owned. Except for that company car he had early on in our marriage…not sure how many times (if any) we got the oil changed in that puppy. And it ended up “throwing a rod,” which turned out to be worse than throwing a fit.
That was a lesson we took to heart. Ever since then, we’ve been religious (there’s an ironic term coming from me, eh?) about changing the oil in our cars and keeping them otherwise well-maintained. And it’s paid off handsomely.
Good Girl
This one, though…Good Girl. She’s gone the farthest of all of our vehicles, and I want to stretch her record out as long as possible.
Others might scoff at how I entertain the possibility that experiences with my automobile could somehow be indicative of a message applicable to me and my life. But that’s how I roll. I do my best to pay attention to what goes on around me. Notice the details. Remain open to possibilities. And listen to the messages.
So when I let you guys in on my ‘ripping the ass off’ my car the other day (“ripping her a new one?” Karl suggested), I realized as I was writing about it that I was using a specific word to describe what had happened that was consistent with another event that had occurred only a week earlier.
Even the Loaner Failed to Escape Unscathed
The evening before my two day CLE seminar in Philadelphia, I ran out to the grocery store for some frozen spinach. I parked the car my mechanic had generously allowed me to use while he and his men tried to figure out what was wrong with Good Girl. I went to hop out – and the lever that opens the car door on the inside snapped off in my fingers. I just sat there for a moment, stunned. I stared at the hunk of baby poop brown plastic in my hand. Good grief, I thought. I cannot believe this. I’ve succeeded in breaking the loaner car.
Not thinking clearly, I crawled over to the passenger’s side to exit the vehicle. Snagged my spinach. Returned home.
I’d texted Karl in the store and he greeted me in the driveway, helpfully suggesting that I could roll down the window, reach out, and open the door that way. Yep, better than crawling across the console.
What’s the Message, Kenneth?*
I didn’t write about that situation in a post – even though I did get the metaphor of snapping, and it did feel significant – because I found other, debatably more interesting, things to write about.
But as I wrote about all the plastic and all the metal connections snapping on the back end of my Prius the other day, I have to admit, I was not feeling all that cavalier about the potential message I was receiving. I have been under a lot of stress for a fairly extended period of time. So has Karl. Was I somehow unconsciously transferring pent up frustrations, anxieties, or other energies into the objects around me causing them to snap? Were they warning me that I’d better pay attention? Perhaps be extra careful with myself, my health, my attitude?
Yikes.
So I laughingly shared the story with you, but didn’t delve too deeply into the possible implications other than to breezily remark about the potential metaphoric application to my life.
Et Tu, Printers?
Cue another weird experience I’ve been having with our printers. We have two, one of which is a great but ancient color laser printer from my law practice days, an undeniable workhorse, and the other a more recent vintage black and white laser printer/copier/scanner. Earlier this week, Monday I believe, the black and white simply stopped working for me. No error messages come up. It appears to accept the print command. Yet nothing comes out of the machine. It works fine for Karl and his laptop. It even prints from his stupid phone.
Fine, I thought. I’m not going to get bent out of shape over this. It’s just another odd glitch. I’ll use the color laser printer. So I did. It’s been fine.
Karl needed to print some stuff out in color for a presentation. He got most of it to print, but a couple times the paper got jammed. Not a problem. This morning, he was printing out one last thing before leaving. It jammed again. I corrected the problem and thought it had all cleared. I closed the machine and it started whirring, as it normally does when it needs to bring itself back up to speed.
It continued whirring. And whirring. And freaking whirring. I was standing there, getting really annoyed as I waited to see if it was going to spit out any additional pages for Karl, because what was with the freaking whirring?
Suddenly, it stopped. Its lights were blinking. I walked over, irritated, and looked at the message on the printer. Believe me, I felt a chill. I think I need to pay some serious attention.
Good Grief!
(T-1009) *A reference to a bizarre incident involving Dan Rather that only those of us of a certain age will get.
Bet you guys are thinking I started this post out with that very English expletive because I hit the triple digits. Amiright?
And you would be forgiven in thinking thus, since I am pretty chuffed (that’s my Irish talking) to realize I’ve actually reached the 100 mark.
But alas, my Crikey! derives from the circumstances depicted in my photo, above.
That, my friends, is Good Girl. She of the 306,500+ mileage fame, who has been flirting with the RT of D. (Indeed, while relentlessly hammering me with the ‘check engine’ light, loud screechy beep and Red Triangle of Death on the day I’d written that post, she’d recently taken pity on me. I thought maybe she was calming down or perhaps just choosing to be gentle with me as long as I didn’t turn on the heat.)
An Oh-So-Short-Lived Reprieve
Let me set the scene: I stopped to pick up a 40 lb. bag of sunflower seeds for my very spoiled birds. We’re running low, and with the forecast calling for snow and ice again tomorrow, I wanted to make sure I have enough to fill all of our feeders. So I stopped at my local Agway store and the strapping young man who waited on me volunteered to haul the bag out to the car for me.
I say ‘haul it out’ for me, but let’s face it: if I had carried it out to the car, it would have been an act of hauling. For him, it was a toss. A nonchalant sling over his shoulder, as if it were a sack of feathers as opposed to food for the feathered. In fact, as I held the door for him I teased, “Oh sure. Look at you. Being all he-man for the little old lady. Showing off your brawn.”
We laughed.
I stepped up to the back of my car and went to pinch the handle that opens the trunk of my Prius and “Crrraaaaaacckkk!” I was suddenly holding in my hand the entire back assembly of my car. I’d literally just ripped the ass off my car.
The young Agway man stepped back, a look of astonishment on his face. (Did I also detect a hint of fear cross his brow like a passing storm cloud?) “Umm, well…” he stuttered as I struggled mightily – mightily! – to curb the expletives that were begging to be released from my mouth like hounds chasing a rabbit. “I think you have me beat.”
Oh. My. Freaking…
There I was, holding this big chunk of my car in my hand, with nowhere to place it because it was essentially dangling by a sole clump of electrical wires. It was like a piece of broken pottery; I could see where each of the myriad points of attachment had simply sheared off.
I tried putting it back on, fitting it together like the pieces of a puzzle. While it did all technically fit together, it didn’t look stable. And when I sort of leaned against it and tried to open the hatch? Nope. Wasn’t happening. Yes, I could fit it back together. But it didn’t matter – every single piece of plastic and metal that comprised that back assembly had snapped.
He placed the sack of seeds across my back seat, marveling that he’d never seen anything like that before. We decided that duct tape was in order.
So there you have it. I discovered as I drove away that the back door isn’t sure whether its closed or ajar, so it blinks the ‘door ajar’ light and the inner dome light flickers on and off as I drive off into the sunset.
I turned my dome light off so the battery doesn’t drain over night. I can no longer lock my car, because the system screeches, telling me one of the doors is ajar.
My car is giving me a message, and I think it’s a lot bigger message than just “You need a new car.”
And don’t you know it? DOLPHIN, telling me to BREATHE, was my ‘underneath’ card today. Again.
P.S. – My mesa asked to stay out again tonight to bask. Or cool her heels. Chill the hell out? I don’t know. Take a look at the weird photo I took last night after opening Sacred Space and placing her in the moonlight:
I am bummed. And honestly? Wondering if I’m being sent a painfully obvious message.
For several months now, since at least August, my car has sporadically inflicted upon me either its “check engine” light (never a sign you want to see) or the dreaded Red Triangle of Death, as we call it in our house (but from here on out: RT of D). You’ve probably at least caught a fleeting glimpse of this symbol when starting your car – when all the lights go on momentarily? It’s always a relief when they all go back out. Regrettably, that’s not happening for me, though.
I’ve had my wonderful Prius in for service a number of times since the ‘check engine’ light first flashed into my life, each time thinking we’d figured it out.
The Engine Light and the RT of D
The RT of D, with an exclamation point centered within it to add emphasis – ! – to that overwhelming dread it engenders when it afflicts your vehicle, and a screeching beep that shakes you out of complacency by heralding the RT of D’s arrival, started having their way with me in October, while returning home from the mountains of Luck, North Carolina (just outside of Asheville) where I’d been visiting an amazing retreat center, Amadell.
I was be-bopping along I-81 North, having just crossed into Virginia (i.e., in the middle of nowhere) when all of a sudden my senses were accosted by the cacophony from my dashboard and I felt that diarrhea feeling come over me. Aaarrgghh. I pulled over, not daring to question the urgency of the RT of D – replete with exclamation point and harsh beep. After a cursory glance around and under the vehicle, which told me nothing, I decided to drive it to the next exit.
This endeavor proved fruitful. I filled the Prius up with gas and opened her hood. (Yes, I can confirm she has a gender, albeit no name other than “Good Girl.”) There was no steam (even though a red thermometer had also appeared when the harsh beep stopped blaring), and no indication of anything awry, actually. Deciding to give her ‘some space,’ I nipped into the station’s convenience store and bought a flashlight.
I’ll confess, I have no idea why I purchased a flashlight Dumb, I know.
Giving Her a Little Love – and Some Space
I walked back out to Good Girl and reassured her that she has earned her name time and time again. But regardless of all the times she’d come through for me on other adventures, it was really, really important for her to get me home tonight. Because I did not want to have to call AAA while 350 miles away from home. “So get your act together, Baby,” I said to my 2005 Prius. “I know you can do it.”
And she did.
Truly, it felt miraculous. Neither the engine light nor the RT of D came on even one more time the entire drive home. She was being my Best Girl that day and night.
The next morning, though? When I was driving to an appointment? Back on – with a vengeance.
So she went in for another spa treatment. My wonderful mechanics tended to her needs and, once again, felt we’d taken care of the situation. This was in November.
Throughout the following months, Good Girl kept having bouts of RTof D. It was tough to discern what was triggering it, but when it would get so that I could not drive for longer than three or four minutes without it screeching at me, I would take her in for another look-see.
Last Ditch Effort
This last time they kept her for two weeks trying to replicate her issues. They were successful in this, and we decided on the least intrusive method of helping her: trying to seal a head gasket from within. (Metaphors abound, do they not?) (There are even more I’m not disclosing…)
I picked her up this past Wednesday. (You’ll recall it was my reluctance to take the loaner they’d given me down to Philadelphia on the day of the predicted snow and ice that resulted in my ride down the train memory lane). She drove perfectly yesterday.
Alas…today she started in on her shenanigans, full bore, within six minutes of driving. And thereafter, she screeched and re-flashed her RT of D every couple of minutes. Her ‘check engine’ light also went on within those initial six minutes and has not turned off yet (besides when I turned off the whole car). As soon as I turn Good Girl back on now, though – she’s clearly a hurting cowgirl.
I am bereft. We’ve been together for 14 years and 306,501.2 miles, to be exact. Even her odometer stopped at 299,999 miles. (Stupid Toyota. I have to keep track of all the miles since then via one of my ‘trip odometers.’)
While she’s served me in great stead, and possibly because she has – I am not yet ready to let her go.
