It just wouldn't be Thanksgiving without car trouble.
Over the Thanksgiving long weekend, I took the temporary reprieve from work and drove to visit my parents down in Wainwright, a drive I have made less frequently of late, distracted with work and social obligations in Bonnyville.
After repeated texts from my mother asking if I was coming, I was obligated to go. I'm not going to lie, the promise of turkey and all the leftovers I could stash in my car was also a pretty big incentive.
On the drive down, I had plenty of time to think, and my thoughts, as they usually do while driving anywhere farther than Cold Lake, turned to the existential nature of driving itself.
I realized it was approaching the second anniversary of earning my driver's license (as I'm writing this column, it's Oct. 15, which is the actual anniversary.) I realized it had been just about a year since my first car, my beloved 1998 Ford Escort, had died a terrible death in the Tim Hortons parking lot. I also realized that meant it had been nearly a year since I was thrown into the unfortunate situation of learning to drive standard or learning to enjoy walking in the increasingly cold temperatures as the weather took a terrible and icy turn toward winter.
There is a spot along the Buffalo Trail Highway, between Vermilion and Wainwright, where I can vividly remember my Escort breaking down during one of my early drives from Bonnyville to Wainwright. A belt snapped and a shard of it somehow hit the power steering reservoir in just such a way so as to cause the plastic to explode.
I can still remember the shocked feeling that I experienced after the loud noise caused me to pull over. I opened the hood and as I did, an entire reservoir of power steering fluid flooded the ground. There was a steaming and impressive splash pattern underneath the hood as well.
I remember those hours spent waiting for rescue on the side of the highway every time I pass that spot and see the farmhouse in the distance, the very same one I once watched for hours, growing hungrier and hungrier, wondering what they might be serving for dinner.
This time, I arrived in Wainwright without any sort of car trouble at all, though I had two tires that were rapidly going flat and a gas tank that was edging towards needing to be filled.
Thanksgiving passed as many Thanksgivings do, filled with grumpy family members, delicious food, and a few rounds of ill-advised board games with family who had consumed one too many glasses of wine over dinner.
The next day, I procrastinated driving back to Bonnyville with a grim dedication I reserve for only the most dreaded of tasks. I developed a spontaneous migraine that caused my vision to waver and realized that no, I simply could not drive under these conditions. Alas.
Finally, as the day grew later and my Motrin kicked in, I packed up my car with the things my parents had declared they would no longer store for me, and waved farewell to my family. I stopped at the gas station, filled up my sad little tires like a good, conscientious driver, and then even filled up my gas tank.
While filling my tank, I realized I forgot my running shoes, so I paid for my fuel, hopped back in my car, made the three turns it took to return to my parents' house (signalling each time, of course, like a good driver does.)
When I got back in my car, I found, to my consternation, the switch for my turn signal was just hanging there, dangling from its leather casing.
How do these things happen, I wondered. Why do these things happen? Is there some force in the universe telling me I should not be on the road today?
I swear, I could hear the fiendish cackling of the forces of the universe as I slumped in my driver's seat and poked at my dangling switch.
On the upside, however, a broken turn signal switch is not a blown piston rod, the type that took out my engine a year ago in the Tim Hortons parking lot. Nor is it a blown belt and shattered reservoir that left me stranded and hungry on the side of Buffalo Trail.
It also meant I got one extra night with my family. And some extra time to reflect on how far I have come in the two years since I learned to drive, both literally and symbolically. I've driven thousands of kilometres up and down Buffalo Trail. I've mastered the art of driving standard and only stall about twice a month these days. I've learned to check my oil, fill my tires, use a tire gauge, and keep constant tabs on a power steering reservoir that seems to frequently and mysteriously run out of fluid.
So at the end of the day, despite suffering what seems to become a Thanksgiving car trouble tradition, I had some valuable realizations about myself and my growth as a conscientious driver who can drive stick.
On the negative side, however, I forgot my Thanksgiving leftovers in Wainwright.
