If it ain’t broke, it will be soon

Some people pour money down a rat hole. Not me. I empty my dollars into a chasm no vermin would dare crawl into:

Cars.

Our three automobiles are disposable income black holes. Among the trio – a 2005 Mercury Sable, 2001 Honda Accord and 1994 Dodge Caravan – rarely a week goes by when one or more doesn’t need an oil change, tire rotation, windshield wiper, brake service, tune up or some obscure part that only a contortionist at a carnival freak show could reach without the help of an industrial hydraulic lift and a tool that bends in 17 directions at once.

We’ve sunk so many thousands of dollars into our vehicles in recent months I’ve quit reading the auto section of our family budget and, instead, taken up reading my 401(k) statements. It makes me feel better.

Is the Sable trying to tell me something?

Watching one car, then another and then the other require attention is like living with a house full of grade school children during flu season. By the time the last child exhibits flu-like symptoms, the first child to become ill starts coughing and sneezing again. At least with a bunch of snotty-nosed kids you can fix the problem for $10 co-pays.

This past year our car infirmary has been exceptionally busy. The list of repairs is long, atypical and costly.

There was the tire that kept losing air. Come to find out I’d driven over a nail, which apparently is an ingredient of road paving materials, considering the number of times I’ve had them removed from tires over the years.

There was the power steering that suddenly lost its power, making the Caravan harder to navigate than an oil tanker pulling a U-turn in the Panama Canal.

There was the mysterious warning light that began glowing on the Accord dashboard. After an attempt to diagnose the problem – I opened the hood, saw that the engine was still there and pushed the hood shut – I took the car to a mechanic. The problem: the gas cap. “In some of these models if they’re not on just right the warning light comes on,” I was told. How could I have missed that, since the “Warning Light” entry in the owner’s manual consists of “Have your vehicle serviced by a certified Honda auto technician”?

There was a battery that wouldn’t hold a charge, a failing fuel pump, old belts and fluids, and several other mechanical issues that will go unnamed because I can’t extricate the 10-pound automotive folder from the file cabinet stuffed with every receipt we’ve collected since before the Wright brothers used the first bar code – or something like that. Anyway, all were replaced, at varying degrees of pocketbook pain.

But none of those financial hits could prepare me for what was to come, however. Unbeknownst to me the granddaddy of auto problems lay just beyond the horizon. I was about to have a transmission go out. Twice.

The Sable’s went first. I was driving to work one morning when I noticed something unusual. When I stepped on the accelerator the car didn’t pick up speed. I tried it again. No luck. A third time I tried – nothing. I pulled the car to the side of the road, turned it off and then back on. Still no acceleration when I pressed on the gas pedal – not even a warning light to lead me to an owner’s manual page with no information. Had my wife finally had enough and purchased a drives-too-fast voodoo doll that looked like me?

Into the shop the car went. Several days of work and a couple thousand dollars in parts and labor later, the Sable emerged with a rebuilt transmission.

A less-expensive use of my money

A once-in-a-lifetime repair, I told myself as I drove it home. Yes, if that lifetime happens to last as long as the tsetse fly’s.

Last month, it happened again. The Accord began doing strange things as it shifted gears. A mechanic confirmed what I feared: the transmission was slipping.

How could this occur again so soon? Had the Accord and Sable compared notes in the garage? And had they gotten to the Caravan?

Another 10 days with the mechanic, and another $2,000-plus expense.

When he notified me the car was ready, the customer service representative finished by saying, “Mr. Leer, while we were putting the transmission in, we found something.”

Unless it’s a bag of South African Krugerrands, I don’t want to know, I thought.

“We noticed a small leak coming from your radiator. At some point you’ll need to have it replaced.”

A Google search placed the repair at between $400 and $600.

I did another Google search. Yep, just as I figured: I could save half that amount by pouring my money down a rat hole.

Cold comfort

It was just a refrigerator. A large metal box used to keep food cold.

An appliance. A machine. Non-human. And yet, in so many ways, the White Westinghouse that we replaced a few days ago was a part of our family.

Yes, I know – it’s silly to get sentimental about something as commonplace as a refrigerator. But for the better part of our family's history, old White was there in the kitchen, inviting us in for breakfast, lunch and dinner. And, if we gave in to temptation, a few snacks in between.

That was only part of what made White special. For the 15 years we owned our 18-cubic-foot frost-free friend, White was the family secretary…the information desk…the art gallery of the Leer household.

Every important appointment made its way onto White’s door, held in place by one of the dozens of magnets we’d collected over the years from pizza restaurants to nonprofit organizations to insurance companies to wherever it was that we found the ones with the ducks. Not a single scheduled visit to a doctor, dentist, loan officer or auto mechanic failed to appear on White’s cool skin.

White held our lives on its doors

Sports schedules and photographs occupied a large space on the refrigerator. There was the picture of our son in his T-ball uniform, cap slightly crooked and mitt open with a ball wedged in the pocket. There, too was the snapshot of him in the recreational soccer league, wearing those way-too-roomy shorts and standing by the ball that was as tall as his shin. Our daughter was pictured in a graceful gymnastics pose worthy of a perfect 10. In another she was surrounded by pom-poms ready to lead "two bits," and still another attired in a volleyball uniform but way too prettied up to smash a spike onto the opponent’s side of the court.

White helped us celebrate academic achievement, as well. Assignments and tests bearing big red A’s and B’s were posted on the refrigerator. If an appliance can appear to smile, White did it every time we attached one of those papers to its exterior.

Our kids’ artwork routinely hung from White. Original drawings of what we supposed were people and animals – some had two legs, others four – were there. Also on display were coloring book pictures filled inside and outside the lines with crayons. The often bizarre choice of colors – purple humans and yellow trees – would have made van Gogh blush, but not White. Our chilly chum always had room for post-impressionism, and any other art period for that matter.

White was a source of inspiration on days when we needed it most. The short, motivational quotes we affixed to its front and sides reminded us of the important things in life – things more important even than the gallon of milk we reached into White’s belly to retrieve. Many were the times those words – some on the refrigerator for years – helped me get through a difficult day.

Recently, an expensive part on White broke. We learned a repair would be less cost-effective than purchasing a new refrigerator. After comparing prices at several stores we chose a model that looks a lot like White. We bought the refrigerator, and I didn’t think much more about it.

A couple of days later as we began removing all the pieces of our lives from White’s metal body, I realized a central figure in our home would soon be gone. White had been with us since our days in North Carolina, when the kids were young children.

White was an appliance, sure, but it had been much more than just a food storage unit. White had enriched our lives in ways that grocery staples could not.

That old refrigerator had nourished our souls.

Jurassic Pick (and roll)

People in the Stone Age played a primitive form of basketball. I should know because I was there, if you listen to what my kids have to say.

Back in the 1970s when large carnivorous reptiles roamed the earth and the only word man could say was “Ug” – again, according to my offspring – basketball was a far different game than it is today.

Yes, we used a round ball made from a farm animal when I played in high school. The backboard was its usual rectangular shape and the referees were just as vision-impaired as always. But much of the rest of the game looked nothing like it does now.

For starters, the rules were practically primordial.

Naismith invented basketball in 1891 B.C -- er, A.D.

There was no three-point shot. Until the mid-1980s you could launch a Spaulding at the basket from the other end of town and you’d earn no more for putting it through the net than if you laid one up from a foot away. That is, if those sight-challenged guys with the zebra print shirts didn’t whistle you out of bounds first.

In the prehistoric era of James Naismith’s invention, long-range field goal attempts were usually considered bad shots. Normally, only short guys who didn’t have the skills to dribble through the tall timber to get to the rim dared try one from distance. Nowadays, every guard, forward, center, team manager, mascot and hot dog vendor with a half-second to get one off steps behind the arc to let fly, and we hold up as virtuosos those whose failure rate is only six out of 10.

The alternating possession rule was a mere twinkle in the rules maker’s eyes in the 1970s, too. Back then, every tie up resulted in a jump ball, which apparently so slowed the action when it happened once or twice a game that a rule change just had to be made in 1981. The two-shot double bonus on the 10^th team foul was not yet adopted, either – a 1990 rule addition that has greatly sped up the action when it happens in 90 percent of all halves. Countless clock stoppages for free throws always put fans in the seats.

Also, dunking was illegal at the amateur level for much of the ‘70s. Basketball’s regulatory body removed that prohibition late in the decade, introducing fans to such game improvements as hanging on the rim and the shattered backboard.

The rim is a hang out place these days

Oh, and then the breakaway rim.

Style of play also has evolved substantially in the 30-plus years since my scholastic hoops career. Set plays were the norm back in the day. We had to memorize six or eight basic plays, with four or five shooting options available for each.

The modern game is all about motion. Everyone moves. They go here, there and everywhere. The spectacle takes on almost a Swan Lake quality, as five guys wearing one color prance about the court while five guys wearing another color chase them around. Every so often one of the guys whose team has possession of the ball steps in front of a chaser, sending the unfortunate slob into a collision reminiscent of those TV crash test dummy PSAs. They call it a “pick.” Short for “pick-him-up-off-the-floor.”

Then there are the team uniforms. Today’s basketball players are adorned in moisture-wicking muscle shirts, shorts easily able to double as gas grill covers and calf-length sneakers engineered to both add three inches to the athlete’s vertical jump and garner a $500 price tag without so much as causing the buyer to grunt in disgust.

Hoops fashion in the 1970s included:

That ‘70s fashion

* A form-fitting tank top that, in female apparel parlance, was held up by spaghetti straps. A large block numeral appeared on the back with a smaller block number on the front, along with the word “Eagles,” which was placed there because everyone named their team after our national bird.

* Shorts cut high enough to reveal the entire fibula, tibia, knee, thigh and the athletic supporter washing instructions tag.

* Sneakers minus logos with swoops, stripes, slashes, check marks and predatory felines. In their place, an autograph from a guy named Chuck Taylor.

We had cheerleaders in the 1970s, too. I can almost hear their chant now:

 “Ug!”

Blood, sweat and fears

I’ve got something they want, and they’re not about to stop until they get it.

“They” are the people of the Indiana Blood Center. They’re desperate to tap into what courses through my veins. ESPECIALLY what courses through MY veins.

I’m among the 7 percent of the population with type O negative blood.

People with type O negative can give blood to people with any other blood type. O negative is the preferred type for accident victims and babies needing exchange transfusions, according to the American Red Cross.

You bloody well better contribute

Unfortunately, the charity goes just one way. As an O minus, the only blood I can receive should I be a quart low is blood just like mine. Negative on the O positive, even.

Since I was typed O negative several years ago I’ve discovered how valuable a commodity I possess. It’s like I’m part of some biological version of the crude oil market, except I’m the oil field and the blood center is British Petroleum. They know reserves sit just micro-inches below my skin, and they want to drill.

The corpuscle cartel won’t take no for an answer, either.

Every few days, usually around dinnertime, the phone rings. It’s a blood center worker, thanking me for my previous donations and asking if I can drop by and contribute again. I usually tell them I’ve been meaning to get over there but just haven’t gotten around to it.

It’s true – to a point. I understand how important it is to give the gift of life through blood donation. I know that if I were the one needing blood I’d hope others were as generous. I’m fully aware of the critical shortages that blood centers almost always experience.

And yet, I’m hesitant. I’m not a huge fan of large needles, particularly if they’re being inserted in my arm. I get a little nervous watching the tube fill up with red liquid and then empty into a large plastic bag. I entertain bizarre thoughts about surrendering a pint of my precious O negative, and what would happen if I needed that pint in one hour and it already belonged to someone else.

I’ve wondered what might occur if I were on an operating table and the surgical team found out my blood type. I can almost hear the conversation:

People with type O blood are the oil wells of humanity

Surgeon One: This guy’s O negative! Should we give him the transfusion?

Surgeon Two: What do YOU think?

Surgeon One: I’m thinking we drain him of every last drop of plasma he has left and send it over to the blood center. He’ll never know. We’ll tell the family we did everything we could do.

Surgeon Two: I’ll get the industrial-size bag ready.

Okay, so that’s not likely to happen. Doctors do take the Hippocratic Oath, don’t they? Or is it trumped by the Is That Covered By Your Health Insurance Pledge?

Whatever, I’m torn between what I see as my duty to mankind and my responsibility to myself.

If the blood center just offered more than cookies and orange juice after I left a part of me in that bag, it might help me muster more courage. Something of equal value to my contribution. Something that would make me feel better about rolling up my sleeve and taking one for the human team.

Something like a coupon for one free pint of O negative.

Yeah, that just might work.

Shall we gather at the riv -- uh, water cooler?

We don’t have a water cooler at my workplace, but we have water cooler talk.

It’s not what you think. None of that “Did you hear who Lori went out with?” or “Someone needs to tell Larry that soap and underarm deodorant are men’s products, too.” No, when we huddle around the imaginary five-gallon plastic jug filled with H2O, my officemates and I discuss important topics.

Really important topics. I mean, CRITICALLY important.

Batman and -- ugh! -- Robin

Like Batman.

Classic TV shows came up the other day in conversation, when I offered this observation: “If I’d been Batman’s sidekick, I would have demanded a more intimidating bird name than Robin.”

“Really?” a coworker asked. “What kind of name?”

“Oh, Vulture sounds good,” I said. “So does Pigeon. Or maybe Barn Owl. Yeah, I like that one: Barn Owl. Batman and Barn Owl.”

“Hmm…”

“And I’d definitely revolt if the Caped Crusader asked me to wear a costume like Robin’s. Those tight green shorts are an abomination. I could see Barn Owl in a white full-body suit with feathers. The ensemble could be completed with a long curved beak protruding from his mask that he could use to peck the bad guys to justice. That, or just swallow them whole like owls do with field mice.”

“Steve, you’ve given this way too much thought.”

Hold the almonds

On another occasion the topic was candy bars. I submitted that Mars and Milky Way are one and the same.

“Think about what’s inside them. You’ve got caramel and nougat,” I declared. “Apparently, every candy bar named after a celestial body must contain caramel and nougat.”

“Are you sure Mars and Milky Way are exactly the same?” a fellow laborer replied.

“Yeah, I think so. Why don’t you Google it?”

A few mouse clicks later we learned that Milky Way has caramel and nougat, while Mars contains caramel, nougat AND almonds.

“I’d forgotten about the almonds in Mars,” I quipped. “Almonds are always are the overlooked ingredient in candy, except for Almond Joy, which almost everyone hates because it’s stuffed with coconut. They wouldn’t sell a single one if it were named Coconut Joy.”

“That’s a very, uh, interesting point, Steve,” my colleague uttered.

Then there was the Saturday morning cartoons conversation.

“You know the TV networks have ruined that institution when SpongeBob SquarePants is considered old school,” I opined. “Give me the Warner Brothers cartoons. Bugs Bunny toying with dimwitted Elmer Fudd; the self-aggrandizing Daffy Duck; the speech-impaired Porky Pig and Sylvester the Cat; the politically incorrect Speedy Gonzales; the lovelorn Pepe Le Pew; the good ol’ boy Foghorn Leghorn; the bumbling genius Wile E. Coyote – ”

“They were great, all right,” an officemate broke in, possibly glancing at her watch, although I wasn’t completely sure.

Where can I buy one?

“Comic violence, slapstick, satire – they had it all,” I effused, hardly skipping a beat. “And there were anvils – lots of anvils! Someone was always getting hit in the head with an anvil. Do people even use anvils anymore? I wouldn’t even know where to buy an anvil, if I had to.”

“Can’t help you there, Steve. Why don’t you Google it?”

“Good idea. I’ll let you know what I find out.”

“Take your time, Steve. Pleeeeease, take your time.”