by Janis Patterson
This post has nothing to do with writing… just with life.
To be honest, I dislike facial hair. I really do dislike facial hair.
There are, however, exceptions.
Not long ago The Husband and I were driving home from a conference in Kentucky. The scenery was beautiful – trees like carpet, charming farms on the rolling hills, the highway itself was – for a change – free of construction and blessedly clearly marked.
The Husband was napping as usual, and I was tootling along at my usual 90-95 mph when suddenly a terse message appeared on the navigation screen saying that we were dangerously low on oil and we should add more or the engine might freeze.
Gulp.
We were in the middle of nowhere, with nothing in sight but trees, trees and more trees.
Immediately I slowed to a turtlesque 50 and hugged the right hand shoulder as if we were lovers. The deity of motorists was in a good mood, though, and in a very few miles a Love’s gas stop appeared. Normally, being a Texan, I prefer Buc-ee’s, but at the moment I was delighted.
Now they had people who knew 18 wheelers, but were totally adrift when it comes to a 13 year old BMW. Neither The Husband nor I are car people… though in my misspent youth I did indulge in some racing. Now if it had been a 1955 Ford I could have broken it down to the smallest part and rebuilt it in the dark…
The sad thing is that we had had the car in the dealership for a sticker and checkover before leaving for Kentucky. Once home we complained, and they admitted that they had dropped the ball and gave us a couple of free oil changes.
Back to Love’s… we were standing there with the hood open staring blankly at the great complicated lump of engine trying to figure out where the oil would go – if we knew what kind of oil it took (I did know it was special oil) – when a man came out of the store. Early middle age, shorts, nice haircut, casual shirt… and a beard. A hirsute Mr. Suburbia. The Husband and I are, unfortunately, both very obviously however reluctantly, classified as Senior Citizens.
He knew what to do. He went into the store and found the type of oil we needed, he unscrewed the cap where it should go, and poured it in. I started the engine and the terse note went away. He did advise us to get to the closest dealership and let them take a professional look (which we did – there is a BMW dealership in Memphis who took great care of us). Once he was sure the car was okay for covering the fairly short distance to Memphis he said good bye and left. He wouldn’t even let us buy him a cold drink.
Sometimes angels do have beards.
Ladies of Mystery 