The Big Red Truck

My car had been leaking all kinds of various fluids for the last few weeks so a family friend who is also an outstanding mechanic, had time to take it yesterday in order to fix whatever was ailing the poor thing. Since the kids didn’t have school yesterday, I told him he could keep the car all day if needed. I just had to have it back by the next morning so I could get the kids off to school and take my 90-year-old mom to the doctor.

The mechanic very thoughtfully left his truck when he took my car, just in case I needed a vehicle. He has done this every time he takes my car to work on it and every time I have never needed to use it. He’s so thoughtful to do this but I honestly couldn’t see myself driving his big, red, super jazzed up, very high off the ground truck. I know this is a truck that any man who enjoys being noticed by the highway patrol would love driving, but not me. In my opinion, it’s nice to know it’s there in case of an emergency but I’m more the boring minivan type of girl. Give me a vehicle that hides all the juice stains on the upholstery and puts me at the same eye level of most of the other drivers and I’m happy. I don’t really want to drive a vehicle that allows me to see so far into other cars that I can tell what kind of shoes the drivers are wearing.

Even though my car was supposed to be ready last night, it took longer than expected because of a list of things the mechanic rattled off to me – none of which I could’ve repeated back to him if my life depended on it. The only thing I really heard was the fact that my car wasn’t going to be ready until later in the morning. Uh oh!

My husband jumped at the chance to take the kids to school so he could ride in the big red truck. So now we were down to the fact that when he returned and then took his own truck off to work, I’d have to take my mom to the doctor in the big red truck.

As I’ve mentioned, my mom is 90. She’s also under 4’8.” To make the situation even more fun, she’s in the early stages of Alzheimers and is often on the cranky side. So whereas my children were jumping for joy at the thought of riding in the big red truck, I knew Mom would have a very different reaction.

I went out into the driveway and walked around the truck, sizing up the situation. First problem – how the heck to hoist Mom way up into the truck. Second problem – getting her out of the thing. I figured I’d need to bring a stool for her to step on. I didn’t have a stool – at least not one that I’d feel was safe enough for a 90-year-old.

I stood in the driveway and went over my options:

Call a cab

Find a neighbor to help me get Mom in the big red truck

Cancel the doctor’s appointment – ding, ding, ding, we have a winner!

I walked back into the house to make the call but just then my phone rang. My husband was calling to tell me that the mechanic told him the car was ready. I’d have my car back within the half hour.

About an hour later, as I helped my mother get into our familiar, unimpressive minivan, she turned to me and said, “I was kind of hoping we’d get to ride in that big red truck.”

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