Rolling Over
I glanced at the numbers clicking away the miles, rhythmically measuring off the coveted roll over. I envisioned the possibilities: fireworks, though it’d be daytime, a serendipitous cavalcade of singers and dancers ala Doris Day:
or at least the significant Beethoven four beat–da da da dum. None of these happen as I turn into my driveway. I am three miles shy of my goal. My anticipated day of Shazzam will not be happening today.
A bit dramatic, I know, but ever I was a little kid I held great significance in the reckoning of the great roll over. It only happens once in the lifetime, at least I have only witnessed it once. And it happened today. And I almost missed it. This is way the MEPA, the Most Excellent Personal Assistant, is valued beyond belief. He noticed the momentous occasion on the way to obtain yogurt and fresh bananas:
“Look, Hon–it turns over in one mile.”
“What?! Ack, I almost missed it.”
Fumbling for my iPhone I quickly recorded the event. Blurry, yes; however, it is recorded for always and forever.
What about you? Have you owned a car long enough to record the reckoning of the rollover?
My parents traded out cars regularly every five or so years (part of the old American dream, you know), so I never actually witnessed the event, although my kidmagination just assumed something significant happened at 100,000 miles–a second chance perhaps? All fibs erased? A sharper remembrance for the eights of the multiplication table? Something. I knew something had to happen.
Of course something had happened: I have saved $20,000 because I replaced the timing belt instead of buying a new Honda. I can’t wait for the next ($)100,000 miles and what it will have in store.
This set of 100,000 has seen the progeny through driver’s ed and high school graduation, trips to visit the grandkiddo, jaunts to do book research, vacation wanderings, Sunday drive escapes, and has ushered us into glad tidings of empty nestering. New car? No, not yet. This one still has a few more memories to accumulate.
Pam Webb 