Hand-Me-Downs

I’ve taken so many down, I’ve helped them all to dismount
I’ve followed so many down, I take their hand me downs

--indigo girls, “Hand Me Downs”

There are times when I feel like one of those gamblers who just can’t quit, even though the cards just won’t fall his way. He gambled away the house, the car, the family jewels, and is working on the clothes he’s wearing. In other words, I feel like I couldn’t buy a break if they were on sale at Wal-Mart.

The Summer of Woe continues here. After painting the house, which I still have to finish (after the dog days of Kansas summer pass), replacing the air conditioner, putting in a new garbage disposal, and having to buy new cell phones, we thought the disasters were over.

How wrong we were. The garage door is broken now, requiring a new set of springs. After the basement flooded twice from the pipes backing up, we discovered (or rather the plumber did) there is a break in the line that carries the water out to the city pipes. How do you fix that? Simple. You hire a company to come in and dig up your backyard so they can get to the pipes and repair them.

It is times like this I feel sorry for Jennifer. I’ve always been the kind of guy who’s lucky in personal relationships. I’ve never been the kind of lucky that wins lotteries or nails down the perfect job just by happening to open the paper and seeing the listing. In other words, my luck never translates to money coming in. In fact, it’s usually the other way around. It isn’t fair she, who loves me so well, should have to endure this fate.

Which brings me to the subject of hand-me-downs. My beloved truck looked to be in danger. On Monday it was fine. On Tuesday, it wouldn’t shift out of second gear, the speedometer wouldn’t work, and several dashboard lights warning of danger came on. Naturally, I feared a transmission problem.

When I told my parents of this latest disaster, they quite generously offered me their minivan. They were looking to get rid of it anyway, and they would be happy to have me take it off their hands to save me money on the truck.

As grateful as I was, the thought left me feeling emasculated. When I was in high school, they gave my brother and me one of their old cars. When I was in college they gave me another of their old cars. I was young then. I was poor. I couldn’t afford to buy even a used car, so I was happy to take these hand-me-down vehicles.

But as I near 40, I’m not sure I want to do it again. I’m not sure I want to trade in a vehicle with 90,000 miles on it for one with 152,000. Moreover, I’m really not sure I want Jennifer to be married to a guy who still has to take other people’s used goods. It’s one thing to buy a used car. It’s another to take one from your parents because you can’t afford to fix the transmission on yours.

Every now and again, luck turns. As it turned out, the truck did not have a transmission problem. An ABS sensor went out, which caused the truck to be unable to shift gears, which disabled the speedometer, which caused all those warning lights to go on. Replacing the sensor fixed everything, and it only cost 130 bucks. I was spared the ignominy of accepting another hand-me-down, and Jennifer was spared the embarrassment of being married to a guy who had to accept hand-me-downs. There was a brief moment of happiness in the Summer of Woe.

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