If I remember clearly, I believe it happened this way....

I felt very comfortable. Maybe my uncle wasn’t the best driver, but I wasn’t terrified. After all, it was daytime and he was only forbidden by his doctor, to the best of my knowledge, to drive at night.

We were an hour from downtown, and the medical appointment we needed to deliver my aunt to was smack dab in the middle of the city. Full disclosure: This is not an American city, nor a city I am familiar with. 

My uncle was familiar with the street, if not with the actual address. He felt very comfortable navigating his own way, but asked me to leave the Waze on just as a back-up.

I won’t even recount the noise and nonsense and silly decisions which led us to this point. Okay, well maybe just one bit of nonsense. At one point my aunt said to me, “Would you like to borrow my hairbrush?” I mean, that is some crazy shit on so many levels!

My general philosophy, which I find works well in life, is to “live in the moment”. It is a colossal waste of time to lament about how you arrived at a crazy point sometimes. Better to just push forward with creative solutions.

Unfortunately, my navigation of the intricacies of international Iphone service was not yet par, and before long it became apparent I was not connected to, well, service. I was not making progress or receiving voice commands. I could, however, see the map and the destination.

My uncle delivered us to the heart of the urbanized area  almost exactly one hour and five minutes before the scheduled appointment. 

Between my uncle’s recollection and my map we also were headed onto a one way street exactly one block from our destination. Sweet!! I reflected upon the quiet simpatico between us in the midst of the maelstrom. 

Now we needed only to find the location of the east and west split. No problem! 1st Avenue! Then we just needed to circle around and find our address.

Wait…not so fast. The avenue we were looking for was rather subterranean and a half-split of a block, so alas we missed it. No problem, we’ll go around the block and circle around again. This time we know where to turn.

As I looked up at the raised platform next to my window and then back at the street I thought, “How very progressive! The platform, train, and street driving are all together! Sort of a modern version of New Orleans ‘ streetcar and neutral ground system.  But the tracks are on both sides, shouldn’t the train be in the middle? And the street on each  side? We are in the middle, right? Should we be? I am so confused!"

Then I looked back up at the platform to see everyone waving wildly for us to head the opposite direction, perpendicular to the car. 

A quick glance in my rearview confirmed we were indeed on the train tracks. 

No worries; the train was pulling into the station and we had the opportunity to turn left, in front of the oncoming train, and get off of the tracks.

My uncle hesitated as the street we were turning onto had a few cars crossing the grade. As soon as there was an opening I said, “GO!”. 

To my dismay, he balked.  A train behind us was nearing and the window of opportunity to turn before the oncoming train was upon us was marginal. I said more firmly, “GO NOW!!!!” Okay, maybe I screamed the words “GO NOW!” And thank God because he did. 

Canadians are SO nice. Every passenger on the platforms on each side of the tracks was rooting for us; waving wildly. It felt great.! And they weren’t just waving, they were actually providing much needed information with regard to the direction we needed to go, and saved me several seconds of thought.

My aunt continued to yell about us going the wrong way. My uncle calmly followed my direction and we pulled into the short term park for the building we needed; only five minutes late. 

We walked into the high rise building entirely comprised of medical offices. My aunt had absolutely NO IDEA where we were going, other than the Hip and Knee Clinic. 

I find a wee bit of irony in this, after listening to her navigation complaints. She did have to pee, but still...her attitude was insufferable.

I walked us around the corner and directly into the Hip and Knee Clinic, grabbed the Ladies’ Room key, directed her to the restroom on the floor, and checked her in at the reception.

I still don’t know how this happened. I mean, the building was floor after floor of medical offices.

I paused for reflection and realized how calm I had felt through the entire ordeal. 

My aunt had been behaving like a crazy person. Or like a person with an undiagnosed personality disorder. About everything. Before we even got in the car. And the entire car ride to the city. Not loudly so much as continuously. 

My uncle and I had tuned out the crazy and listened quietly to each other and our own intuition.

BAM! What a metaphor! Tune out the crazy, listen to the quiet, trust your instinct, trust your abilities, especially your innate ones, and everything will be fine. 

When something like this happens, I’m usually certain the Universe wants me to pay attention to the lesson. 

I’m paying attention Universe!

When it was all over, my aunt said she'd nearly had a heart attack, she couldn’t calm down. She wasn’t worried so much about us getting killed,it was more about the car being damaged. 

You can take a Canadian out of parsimony, but you can’t take the parsimony out of a Canadian.

Many times since my arrival, I had been grateful for my uncle. He reminded me of the line in the Desiderata, “There will always be greater and lesser persons than yourself….” 

Every person needn’t be the most intelligent, or the most clever, or the funniest. Every person has something to contribute, and at least one gift. 

My uncle is one of the kindest, most patient men. This makes him a really great teacher. He is also very considerate and conscientious. Being conscientious sometimes makes him slow.  Painfully slow. 

Thanks for the bonus lesson Universe. Don’t focus on how annoying it is when someone is slow. Focus on how lucky you are to know someone so conscientious and considerate.

My aunt wanted to take us to dinner the next Saturday night. I know she wanted to treat me, and I also know that she wanted me to see my cousin’s house. She was and is very proud of his accomplishments, as well she should be. 

I know my uncle is not allowed to drive at night. She was post-op and unable to drive. I was not allowed to drive because I might have been an “uninsured American” and she’s unsure of the laws.  

Normally I will tolerate a bit of "grandstanding" in the name of pride.  But was I willing to risk my life?

OMG!  Why do I have to face these challenges where I have to speak out loud?  First lessons, then practice. Sometimes the Universe is SO ANNOYING!

I thought long and hard that night. The next morning I told her I didn’t think the Saturday outing was a good idea and why. She took it pretty well.

After all, call it Near Death or call it a Charmed Life, I feel it is never wise to tempt fat

Everyone I’ve ever met who has owned a Jeep has loved it. Every. Single. Person. Including me.  I loved, loved, loved MY Jeep. I bought it post-divorce. It was the perfect car for a newly single mom who spent a considerable amount of time driving her two small boys to sports practices and games.

I was living in Atlanta and I bought the demo Cherokee at my local dealership. It was the old-school cool, boxy kind and had maybe a hundred miles on it. 

While waiting for the paperwork to be finalized, the mechanic popped out of the service center. He said he regularly serviced Jeeps like mine with between 200,000 and 400,000 miles. He said to just perform the minimum regular oil changes and I could expect the same. “WELL-DONE!” I said to myself.

I was also pleased with how quickly I had transacted the purchase of this vehicle.  I was going to be doing a lot of these types of things for myself now, so the ease of purchase was rewarding. I mean, I had spent an entire evening sobbing when I couldn’t hook up my television. Not soft, pretty sobbing, but a full body, inconsolable, soul-wrenching, dehydrating, exhausting cry which only results from facing  something seemingly insurmountable.

Because the car was a demo, because I waited until the end of the month, or because the stars were aligned; the purchase went smoothly. I didn’t know OR care why it was so painless, I was just SO happy it was. So, I was a bit out of sorts to find a minor glitch which necessitated a return visit to the dealership.

Only two days later I returned asking how to put the Jeep into four-wheel drive. I’d looked everywhere. Couldn’t see it. 

I’d owned other four-wheel drive vehicles, but not for about a decade. I was convinced a new method of switching from two-wheel to four-wheel drive had been invented. 

I approached my salesman and said, “I CANNOT find the four-wheel drive switch on this car.”

“This car doesn’t have four-wheel drive.”

Undeterred I continued, “In my last SUV it was right here by the gear shift. And you just switched it from 2WD to 4WD. Did they change the way you switch it?”

“This car doesn’t have four-wheel drive.”

Puzzled I say, “I thought all Jeeps had four-wheel drive.”

“No, all Jeeps do NOT have four-wheel drive,” replied the salesman.

Not even feigning confusion I said, “But that doesn’t make any sense. I thought Jeeps were four-wheel drive vehicles. I mean, Jeeps were invented  AS four-wheel drive utility vehicles for the war.”

“All Jeeps do not have four-wheel drive. This is the South. It does not snow here. The Jeeps don’t NEED to have four-wheel drive.”

It WAS true I hadn’t experienced any snowy weather to date.  Inside my head I was thinking of several thousand scenarios other than snow where four-wheel drive might be useful, but I'd grown accustomed to the colloquial manners where politeness is shown by not correcting men when they are wrong.

“Excellent point.” I said. “I just thought four-wheel drive is what made a Jeep a Jeep. I mean, they were for the Army, so I thought they all had four-wheel drive.”

“Nope.” the salesman said with a finality indicating the discussion was over.

Flash forward. Saturday morning. Lacrosse Tournament. Lacrosse is a great game. It originated with Native American tribes, who played it “to the death.” The modern-day version is not played “to the death”, unless you count playing in all weather; which is the norm and includes thunderstorms; thereby increasing your risk of death by lightning strike. 

I arrive at the tournament grounds; alone. The boys are with their Dad. Saturday mornings we typically both attend sporting events and switch custody.

It is raining. The ground is muddy; but not just muddy. It is the kind of muddy where the ground is completely saturated with water standing  as it couldn’t absorb another drop.

Parking is directed by attendants in yellow slickers to various areas of open field divided by trees. I am in a small section of parking for, maybe, 25 cars.  I must drive through a puddle to park. Before I contemplate being cautious, I am stuck. In mud. In muddy puddles and soft ground. 

I get out of the car to assess the situation. Fiercely independent, the absolute last thought I could entertain would be asking my ex-husband for help; which fleets through my brain. 

The next thought is one which I have repeated aloud ad nauseam for decades. “I am an excellent driver.” Having grown up in farm country and having learned to drive on my Grandpa’s farm at a very young age, I feel a surge of optimism. I will have the car out of the mud, be parked and cheering on the sidelines soon with no one the wiser.

No dice. Every subtly nuanced synchronization of reverse, forward, slight gas, and oppositional turning of the steering wheel is for naught. I step out of the car to check the track marks for my best options when who should appear?

A DAD!!! Not just any Dad, but  Stranger Dad who reeks of beer. At 10:30 on a Saturday morning. At a Boys’ Lacrosse tournament. I can only hope he also is a divorced parent and has indulged in early Saturday beer drinking after giving responsibility for his children to his ex-wife. Or he is the fun uncle.

He really, really, REALLY wants to attempt to extricate my car from the mud puddle. 

“Give it a try!” I say encouragingly.

He pulls some maneuvers very similar to my own. Again, no dice. 

“Where’s the switch for the four-wheel drive?” he asks benignly.

Without hesitation I replied, “This Jeep doesn’t have four-wheel drive.  I KNOW! It’s weird, right?  I thought all Jeeps had four-wheel drive also. Turns out, they don’t. I bought this one in the South. It doesn’t have four-wheel drive. You don’t really need it there.”

If I had asked for a divine intervention to illustrate the premise that men don’t really listen to women, it could NOT have been delivered more perfectly (or with more precision or timeliness). 

What happened next is: the man lies down ON THE MUDDY, WET GROUND. He LIES DOWN on the muddy, wet ground with his head under the front of the car, next to the driver’s side wheel. He then skootched under a bit, looking up. 

If I had just happened upon the scene I wouldn’t have known he was soaking wet, with one half of his entire body, the back side, caked with heavy, wet, wet mud.

Without the slightest bit of annoyance in his demeanor or voice; he said with what can only be described as sheer astonishment:

“This car doesn’t have four-wheel drive.”

And only because I just KNEW he wasn’t going to listen I replied, 

“And apparently, you need a penis to know that.”