FIXING PROBLEMS? START AT THE BOTTOM

Fixing problems begin with a strong identification.

For example, the car rides lumpy and low in the back right?

You may have a flat tire.

That’s a problem that needs fixing.

I had a station wagon with my younger children, the rambunctious years, just before their ‘my parents suck’ years.

We packed it up to the brim one morning with food and gear for a big day up in Washington to see Mt. St. Helen’s progress after the 1980 blast.

I know what your thinking here, ‘exuberant kids stuck in a car on a long drive to look at a mountain.’

It sounds different in print. No wonder they thought we were shit in the coming years. But it wasn’t really a problem because their mother was a pro at fixing problems.

And no, she didn’t fix things with the old tools like a belt, a coat hanger, extension cord, or her shoe. We were a time-out family.

For additional problems the wife invited her single lady nature friend who had never been married, never had kids, and liked a day of smoking cigarettes in her back yard better than anything.

To be fair it was a beautiful Portland backyard in the NE 30’s.

Since she didn’t have the parenting tools needed for unruly little fuckers, which I enjoy more than sit and be quiet robotic kids, she used me as a sounding board.

Why me?

Driving That Car, Going Too Far

To get where we were going meant crossing the Columbia River on the I-205 Bridge.

AKA as the Glenn Jackson Memorial Bridge, I’d run the first road race on it before it opened, a 10K that started on one end with a turn-around on the other.

So there I was with a old maid of forty, also my age at the time, in the backseat with two kids who would have rather been anywhere else.

One of my memories of that day is listening to her give directions on the bridge. Not directions TO the bridge but directions ON the bridge.

Who needs directions when you’re on the bridge?

Not me, not you. It’s more about who needs to ‘give’ directions ON the bridge.

It may have been funny but that’s not how I remember it. Annoying as fuck is how I remember it, but being a good citizen I said thank-you and ignored her.

Take another look at the picture. The green in the middle is Government Island.

On December 15, 1983, the first cars crossed the “Interstate 205 Bridge”. The bridge traverses Government Island. Total bridge length is 11,750 feet (a little over 2 miles), with the north channel section (Washington State to Government Island), 7,460 feet, the Government Island section, 1,170 feet, and the south channel section (Government Island to Oregon), 3,120 feet. 

In the section in the background I got a flat tire on the back left.

2

Do I stop on the bridge and change a tire in the traffic side of the car, or keep driving and shred it?

The old maid said pull over. Wife agreed.

The first thing she did to help was get out and start smoking.

It was my first flat in the station wagon so I broke out the manual.

The spare was underneath all the crap in the back.

Have you ever seen a car pulled over with everything unloaded and strewn all over?

That was us.

Everyone stayed in the car except the ‘friend.’

She got out and started fixing problems, like making sure I got enough second hand smoke to go along with freeway car exhaust.

She chained her cigarettes, lighting each new one off the butt of the old.

I got the tire out after looking over the edge of the bridge. We were way the hell up there. I didn’t have much of a shoulder to work on so I hustled it along.

The biggest detriment was someone explaining every step of the process, like giving directions on how to drive on a bridge.

It made me more tense and anxious than I already was.

I’d been fixing problems alone until I got married and learned I’d need to get better at it.

What I didn’t need was an extra voice giving instructions on something she didn’t know about.

I asked her to get back in the car. She didn’t. I asked again. She didn’t.

I asked my wife to get her the hell out of my hair or we’d be here all day.

Reset For Road Trip After Fixing Problems

I changed the tire then turned off to the Les Schwab Tire Center on the other side of the bridge before continuing.

The kids in back were making faces and holding their noses because the lady in the seat with them smelled like an ashtray.

That was my breaking point.

I’d either turn around and to back home, or deal with it.

The stink was all in the car and stayed there for days after.

I lowered my window without asking if the wind was too much.

The smell was too, too, much.

With the decision to continue I got to show the kids the devastation of a volcanic eruption.

2

When you’re married to someone who knows all about fixing problems it’s a competition of who gives up first.

I gave up on the old maid when she didn’t do what I asked her to do the first four times: STFU.

The wife solved that problem while I did the real problem solving on the tire.

Together we got things rolling the right direction instead of quitting on the day.

In my man-logic, my baby boomer logic, quitting on the day was quitting on the kids, quitting on the wife, quitting on the adventure we started.

But I didn’t quit. I’m not a quitter and neither are you.

When things don’t go right? Take time to figure it out.

When you’re sick and tired of the same old bullshit? Take time to reset.

In my case I reset after changing a flat tire under trying conditions, and I’m not including bridge traffic.

I wasn’t going to let inconsiderate behavior change the plans.

Did my kids care? Not much, but they got into the mountain a little later.

Did my wife care? She would have been understanding if I quit.

Did the old maid care? As long as she had a fresh pack of Marlborough Lights she was happy anywhere.

Did I care that much? I did because I’m a proven gamer.

Come at me with a problem and I’ll find a solution. If not, I’ll be agreeable with someone else’s.

And that, dear reader, is one way of fixing problems: ask for help.

Yours?