I was driving in my old truck yesterday, intent on towing my once-again disabled 1978 MGB from the spot where she finally came to rest after having a mild stroke. It happens like that with old cars, a small blood vessel pops somewhere under the hood and suddenly the whole thing becomes paralyzed by the side of the road.
I was happy that my son could come and help me drag it home and I was delighted by the skill that he showed – carefully folding his 6’6” frame into that little two seat, English buggar.
He did so well maintaining dignity there in the chase car – his passenger, a 14 year old special-needs sister having refused to vacate the disabled vehicle, rode along screaming in delight with every jerk and bump of the tow chain.
I was proud of the lot of us, Jon, sitting a full head higher than the windscreen, Bethany with her jet-black hair floating up as if electrified, the old rusty truck towing the lot of it all. I was proud even after the fabled “right hand turn” when I felt a jerk and looked back in the rear-view mirror and noticed the MG sitting at a stop light and a long, silver chain dragging a car bumper along the road behind me…
Such is my life; here “In the Fik of it”, I am.