Ms. Toad's Wild Ride

[a series of emails, which thanks to Jeffery Thompson (my other brother in that alternate universe), have been preserved over the years]

One spring break some years back, my sister Ann and I, with our 5 children  (Kammy, Isaac, Eliza, Zeke, and Max) piled into my 7 passenger van and headed down to the southern hills of Kentucky to see Daniel Boone's fort and the Kentucky Reptile Museum.  Such an expected success was the Reptile Museum that we found ourselves wandering through the Natural Bridge State park at 6 pm, wondering if we should drive the 4 hours back to Ohio or find a place to stay.  We had determined that the only recognizable lodging, a state park facility, was full,  and were about to drive down a steep, winding driveway to a campground to look for a cabin when a srange feeling overtook me and I pulled off the road and said to my sister, "I don't think I'm supposed to drive anymore," which turned out to be a fortunate insight, because when next I tried to use the brakes to stop on the flat shoulder going 2 miles an hour they did not work.  At all. 

I hiked down the hill to the campground, which happily had a pay phone (pre-cell phone days) and called AAA for a tow truck (2 hours at least, they said), but in the meantime, we flagged down a park ranger, who very helpfully drove us around here and there, radioing the park lodge kitchen to stay open so he could take my sister to buy dinner for the kids, and asking the residents of a nearby house to call the cabin up the road, where they said, well, yes, there was room at the inn, which should have seemed a good thing, since the park ranger had already advised us, by laughing out loud at our question, that there were no buses, taxis, or other means of transportation for 7 people within 5 counties.  And we had nothing resembling camping gear.  But we'd happened to notice a sign for that cabin before we'd stopped, and it was hand-lettered, worn down, and said, "If you like nature, you'll love this place!  C'mon back and visit" and we'd also seen that the driveway curved sharply up a hill and disappeared into thick, brambly, snake and spider-filled woods.   So we were worried about this cabin.

But when our tow truck driver, J.E., finally arrived (a short, wide, slouching sort of man, who proved very difficult to understand, probably partly because we never saw his teeth), we were presented with more immediate worries, because J.E. couldn't figure out what was wrong with the brakes, shrugged, said "ya gotcha yer 'mergency brake" and pretty much wanted to head for home, as it was past quitting time on a Friday.

Fortunately, the ranger had stayed with us for the duration, and questioned J.E. (with whom, of course, he was acquainted) and advised him that if it were his children, he wouldn't drive the van.  And he'd gotten us a place to stay.  So J.E. was going to have to pitch in. 

Thus it transpired that 5 kids and one petrified mother (Ann had the great privilege of riding in the truck with J.E.) were loaded up on top of J.E.’s hydraulic pick-up lift (after J.E. helpfully advised me to "putcher mergency brake on"), perched at a 30 degree angle, which often became 70 degrees, as we traversed the hills and dales and enjoyed unique views of the bottomless depths of southern Kentucky’s finest gorges (“lean to the left,” screamed the kids, “no, right!  Now left!”), until we arrived at our little cabin in the woods, where we enjoyed the thrill of riding at a 90 degree angle when J.E., God bless him, decided that we shouldn't have to walk up that hill, so he drove us straight up into the woods.

When he finally rolled to a stop (teetering at a cliff edge, though JE greatly reassured us by wedging a block of wood under his tire) there was room only to partly lower the van, which was now tilting both sideways and backwards (great timesaver for unloading luggage, but a little tricky to exit).  While my sister was struggling to pull open the van doors against the force of gravity, 3 college students, who we later found out were from Michigan, strolled up the hill (they were staying in the teepee near the waterfall behind the cabin), and helpfully asked "What's the contract on America?"  (reference, a bumper sticker on my van).  She paused to answer them as the kids shrieked and clambered across the van seats, they said, “cool”, and ambled on towards their teepee. 

We all finally managed to tumble out of the van, and with relief that can only be described as knee-weakening, discovered these were extremely kind people (overwhelmed with relief themselves to discover that we had credit cards) who owned what turned out to be a very comfortable bed and breakfast (only 1 brown spider crawled out of the drawer when I opened it to get out the bottle opener, a couple hours later, and they'd seen only one copperhead snake in the woodpile in the last few days), and they even drove us to the nearest store, 10 miles away and, fortuitously, because their county was dry, just across the county line. The store also sold granola bars and chocolate milk.

We went to bed feeling that things were looking up, but the next morning at 11 a.m. we got word from L. Rodger Dodge in Stanton that my van could not be fixed until at least Tuesday (this was Friday, end of spring break) because the $800 part had to be ordered from, where else, our home town, Deeetroit. A very big big problem, because we had no way to get food for lunch or dinner, the nearest rental car place was over an hour away, and only rented locally, and there was only 1 short, muddy trail to walk on, around a ravine with a pool of water at the bottom, into which Eliza had already nearly disappeared, and otherwise nothing but highway with guard rails, a tiny cabin, and a creek full of crawdads.  Plus Isaac had already spotted a copperhead in the woodpile.

But just as I hung up the phone, the man who owned the place said he was going to the Lexington airport (1 1/2 hours away) to fly to Munich, as in Germany.  At this point, nothing seemed surprising, so I nonchalantly hopped into his car and rode to Lexington, and other than a few panicky hours at the airport when, after saying bon voyage to my host, I found that none of the onsite rental agencies had any vehicles that could fit anything close to 7 people (it was a big weekend for horse racing in Lexington) but then finally reached, by courtesy phone, a cheerful Thrifty agent down the road, who first had a 7 passenger SUV (for only $450 the week), which was rented by the time I’d checked my credit limit, then put me on hold for 10 minutes, and finally came back on the line and said, "Woman! You must be livin’ right -- cause my lady friend's gonna take another car and let you have her Durango!", the rest of the day went uneventfully as I drove back to Slade, loaded everyone up into the SUV, trundled over to L. Rodger Dodge to retrieve our luggage (which, with the amused assistance of Mr. L. Rodger, we had to strap, in a makeshift sort of way, to the top of the SUV because among other worthless aspects of SUVs it turns out they have inadequate luggage space) and got back to Columbus at 10 pm that night, and home to Detroit on Sunday.                          

Foolishly assuming that no news is good news, I made my way through the week, and finally called L. Rodger Dodge on Thursday to verify that I’d be picking up my repaired van on Saturday.  Mr. L. Rodger answered, and asked me where I was calling from.  “Michigan,” I answered.  “Michigan?” he said. “Whatcha doin’ in Michigan?” I reminded him that Michigan was where I lived.  “Well,” he said, “You should move on down here to Stanton.”  Maybe, I thought, I should. 

Once Larry, who is, it turned out, the sole mechanic at LR Dodge in Stanton Kentucky ("people round here pretty much fix their own vehicles") returned from lunch, he politely informed me that he had not yet fixed my van because, well,  Chrysler wouldn't send him the part... Why not?  "Don't rightly know."

Why didn't he call me Monday when they ran into this problem, since they'd promised to call right away if anything came up that would interfere with the van getting repaired this week?  "Well, ma'm, I believe Dickie was intending to call you, just as soon as he could get to it."   He promised to have Dickie call me soon.

After a few phone calls to local Detroit dealers and Chrysler customer relations, I finally heard from Dickie, the parts manager at LR Dodge (a very busy man, lots of folks buy parts) who, having finally gotten his "Ps and Qs in order” ("turns out they've updated the '91 manual we've been using, and I'm much obliged to the Chrysler relations man for pointing that out to me"), said the correct part might, or might not, arrive in Kentucky that day.  If not, “well, we’ll do our best to get to it next week just as quick as we can, ma’m.”  (They're closed on Saturday.)  I began to make plans to buy the part from a local dealer and drive it down to Kentucky that night.

But the stars had finally aligned, and the part did arrive in Stanton from Detroit, the van was repaired Friday, and I headed down with my 3 kids on Saturday to retrieve my van, as well as my AAA card, which J.E., who apparently had little use for the U.S. mail system, had, in all the excitement of wood blocks wedged under tires and vans at 90 degree angles, mistakenly kept.

It was a beautiful, sun-swept afternoon when we arrived in Stanton, and all the folks at L. Rodger Dodge were courteous, friendly, and happy to see us.  Before heading north, we drove to J.E.’s house in our newly repaired van, and, as instructed, made our way across the large gravel lot and up the driveway, a bit unnerved by a snarling, frothing dog that kept lunging at my tires, and found J.E. sitting on the porch.  The card was in his truck, he informed us, at the other end of the lot, so he’d just ride with us back down the hill.  Not to worry about the maniacal dog, he assured us.  “Y’cain’t hit ‘er.”   My kids peered through the windows doubtfully, shouting out news of her whereabouts and giving me steering instructions.  I accelerated, braked, and swerved, trying to avoid a traumatic event for all concerned.

“Just gun yer engine, y’cain’t hit ‘er,” J.E. insisted, as my van spewed gravel, zig-zagging across the lot.  Then, inexplicably, he added, “Don’ worry, she been hit five times.”  What???  I slammed on the brakes.  “But - I thought - you said I couldn’t hit her –?”  He shrugged.  “She meyssed up.”

We managed to get to his truck, then back up to his house, where he pulled himself out of our van and nodded farewell, finally showing us a glimpse of his teeth through a disconcertingly amused smile.  We sped down the driveway like outlaws avoiding gunfire, pulled out onto the road without stopping, and sped madly away, only able to breathe again once we could see the dog with five lives and counting, barking victoriously, receding in the rear-view mirror,

We haven’t been back to that part of Kentucky since then, but some days I wonder about curious little coincidences like the fact that my husband’s name is L. Rodger and his nick name growing up was Rodger Dodger, and the Stantons were the best friends of our family growing up, and that somehow I knew not to drive down that hill, and I think maybe, someday, the southern hills of Kentucky would be just the place to own a charming little bed and breakfast and have a peaceful, relaxing retirement, maybe with a couple of puppies, a homemade wooden sign, and just one copperhead in the woodpile.

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