Slurpees and Saturdays

My wife wrecked her van a couple weeks ago.  Yes, everyone is OK.  But the van is dead.  A total loss. 

She shopped for two weeks to find a car.  She put a status update on her facebook page that read, "Emily is:  looking for a good used car driven by a grandma."  Within a few hours an old friend from high school replied,  "My grandma has dementia and is getting rid of her car.  Give me a call."  It was an eleven-year-old car with 54,000 miles with a set of extra snow tires for a great price.  We agreed to come see it on Saturday.

In the mean time, my wife has been driving my van.  So much so, that there was no gas in it on Saturday when I trailered up and went to get a load of wood chips from the composting facility.  I left the house at 1:30 p.m. We needed to leave at 3:30 p.m. to go get the new car.  All the kids came with me rather than stay with mom to weed planters. 

On the way to get gas and Slurpees, my diabetic son yells out over my country station, "Dad, I only have four units of insulin in my pump." 

A silent expletive left my lips as I realized my wife left me with no gas and no insulin.  Slurpees and gas would have to wait until we were on our way home.  We didn't want the shaved ice to melt completely while we waited for my son to get an infusion of insulin to handle the tidal wave of sugar in an extra large cherry Slurpee. 

Turned out we had about six miles worth of fuel in the van.  That was just enough to get our load of wood chips and drive dead center between two gas stations on the way back.  Two miles either direction stood between us and fuel.  It was now 2:30 p.m.

"Kids, we have no gas, and mom has no car to bring us gas.  We are on our own.  We need to hustle.  Lets go."  The kids piled out of the van and started walking.  My wife's side of the family has an aversion to socks so my daughter was in flip flops, my son was in vans, and my younger son was in sandals.  I was in boots.  With socks.  Like always.

A mile down the road, my diabetic son's foot starts blistering.   I'm pretty sure another expletive ran through my head. 

Two miles later, my son was walking barefoot with the blistering foot, and I paid $9.99 for a stupid one gallon gas can.  I shook my head at the $.69 sales tax the state made for doing nothing.  My kids wanted their Slurpees, but I wanted to get back to the car in a hurry.  I thought Slurpees would deter would-be hitch-hiker picker-uppers (yes, I did just use three hyphenated words in a sentence).

We jaywalked across the road and my kids started walking like they were crossing the Mojave and were parched with thirst.  I smiled as I looked at my pathetic family.  Surely someone would have mercy on a man with three kids and a gas can, thumbing it down the road. 

Fifty cars drove past as we passed the first quarter-mile.  Barefoot son was almost crying.

Then someone stopped.

We ran up and explained our plight and they moved some miscellaneous car gear from the back seat.  We were rescued. 

My kids thanked them and explained we were walking "all day in the hot sun with no Slurpees." 

We got back to the car at 3:40 p.m.  We filled the tank the rest of the way and got the much coveted icy drinks.  My kids were silent.  We got home at 4:00 p.m. with a full tank of gas and empty Slurpee cups. 

My wife has her own car again.  Life is back to normal.  That was the second time I've hitch-hiked with my kids, but that is a story for another day.