Lots of errands
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Our Forester was due for inspection in June, and I drove Arlene to work and headed back across Newton to Chestnut Hill Texaco. It's an old gas station, brick with three service bays, on Route 9. They're very proud of being one of the oldest gas stations in the area, and have pictures of route 9 from the '30s, '40s, or '50s. We started going there when it was recommended as a place to take a car you're thinking of buying to get a mechanic to check it over.
You have to be careful with inspection stations. Some will find a problem with a car no matter how good condition you think it's in (Sears auto centers used to have that reputation when I was in graduate school). Some feel that you're paying them for a sticker, and will pass a car no matter how bad shape it's in. At my age and income level I don't mind paying to get a legit problem fixed, and Chestnut Hill Texaco does a fair inspection -- if there's a problem they'll tell you (“Your right backup light is out. That's a safety violation, and you need to get it fixed straightaway”), but they don't search for marginal failures, like maybe not quite enough tire tread, just to get extra work. It was a pleasure taking a one-year-old car there and passing inspection with no trouble, though.
I stopped in at Star Market to grab a quart of Arlene's favorite Brigham's ice cream, since it's right there on route 9, and at the CVS drugstore next door for my Sensor razor blades. Then (after a quick stop home to put those away) over to Waltham to pick up the stove heating element, which came in quicker than they told me to expect.
I drove back to Arlene's school and got my bike out of the trunk to go to work, but, rats! I had forgotten my helmet when we left home. Also the velcro straps to keep my pants out of the chain. I mumbled a lot and drove home to get them, and installed the stove part while I was there. I mumbled a lot about traffic and street construction on the way, too
But, while waiting for the construction, I learned how you move a Jersey barrier. Those things have holes in them near the ends. You bring over a backhoe with a pair of cables attached to a hook in its scoop, with a big eyebolt, maybe eighteen inches long, made of one inch rod stock, hooked onto the end of each cable. The ends of the eyebolts go through the holes in the jersey barrier from opposite sides, and the backhoe operator lifts the scoop to lift the barrier and moves it roughly into position. People on the ground nudge it exactly into place and hook it to the adjacent barrier. They remove the eyebolts and the backhoe can get out of my way.
I must have cooked supper on the grill all of the last three nights. Hot dogs and eggplant Monday, chicken Tuesday, with fresh cilantro from the garden in the marinade, the rest of the hot dogs tonight (nobody in the audience minds an occasional sentence fragment, right?). Forget gourmet food; I have a high tolerance for grilled hot dogs, especially when I have a Pilsner Urquell to wash them down.
But sure enough at about 9:30 Arlene asked, “Would you mind going out and bringing back some ice cream?” Big smile! Every once in a great while I do something right.
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