Hey Gang,
So anyway, after getting yesterday's post posted and so forth it is almost 9
PM when we head out to get some supper. Now, Brenham, Texas is a pretty good-
sized little town as good-sized little towns go. Maybe 12,000 inhabitants
though the locals claim 20,000. A number of motels, lots of stores, and a
good number of restaurants, all of which close at 8 PM, except, of course, on
Friday and Saturday nights, neither of which this happens to be.
This is Tuesday, shortly before 9 PM, and the motel desk clerk says we have a
choice of eating at "Cafe Ole which is just around the corner if we hurry or
at the Wal Mart snack counter, the nachos ain't half bad. Other than that,
Murray down at the Shell can micro up a burrito for ya's 24 hours per day."
We hot foot it out to the 'Pine, hop in and zip around the corner to Cafe Ole
where the Carne Guisada turns out to be not too bad, though certainly not
something that the cafes in Las Cruces need to worry about too much.
Done with supper we start up and head back to the motel, maybe a quarter-mile
away. We have the roadway entirely to ourselves as we approach the traffic
light where we will make a left turn and I am in second gear, doing about 20
mph, when the 'Beamish Boy goes dead in the water. One moment purring along,
the next moment... nada.
I let 'Beamish coast for a bit, almost up to the light, then pop the clutch
which does not start the engine but does manage to throw Janet against the
windscreen, sorely testing her resolve to remain ladylike in all
circumstances. I have no similar resolve to achieve gentleman-like status and
am pretty much cussing a blue streak when the car slams to a stop at the
light.
I let it sit for a few moments, long enough to get the remainder of my cussing
out of the way -- which I think is terribly important -- and long enough to
let the traffic light turn to green my way before I shut down all the lights
and hit the starter. The car springs to life instantly, which I attribute
more to my resolve to deal with the diffugilty in a very workmanlike manner --
which is to say, by cursing the problem back to the stone ages -- rather than
to Janet's silent entreaties which I maintain have almost no effect on the
problem at hand though I admit I have seen her pop the lid off a recalcitrant
pickle jar merely by frowning and arching one eyebrow.
This is no pickle jar we are dealing with here.
We make it back to the motel without further ado. I have no idea what caused
the problem on the road a few minutes ago but I do know that the hardest fault
to find and correct is the intermittent fault. That, I maintain, is why I
have tried for so many years to maintain a copious and consistent supply of
faults of my own. I figure if Janet wants to work on fixing 'em, I ought to
at least give her a chance to isolate the really major faults without being
distracted by a bunch of little faults that don't amount to no more'n a
popcorn fart in a bean eaters' convention.
Upon pulling into a parking space in the motel lot we are amazed at the sheer
quantity of crickets hopping hither, yon, and the other place. These are big
crickets and plenty plentiful. As we walk across the parking lot we feel tiny
little impacts on our knees as the hopping crickets either try to bring us
down or try to get the heck out of the way. They are everywhere and three or
four deep in most places.
The motel's walls are black with them. Black and squirmy. As we pass a trash
can a phalanx of crickets move down the wall in formation and hide, or perhaps
lurk, behind the can until we are gone.
Once inside our room we perform a cursory cricket search before retiring. We
do not leave a wake-up call. We do not set an alarm. We crash and stay
crashed until oh seven thirty o'clock of the AM.
This morning I de-cricket the car and give things under the bonnet a pretty
good going over looking for a loose electrical connection but find nothing.
'Beamish is again down half-a-gallon on coolant.
It is 9:35 AM by the time we are finally gassed up and we hit the four-lane
but we aren't concerned as Austin is less than a hundred miles away... We are
as good as there. I have just dropped into 4th gear, just getting up to
speed, when the car quits again. One minute, sixty miles per hour, just
positively purring along -- incidentally, that exhaust note really is growing
on me -- and the next second the engine is dead as the proverbial door nail.
I push in the clutch and let the car coast for a couple of minutes while I
concentrate on my cussing but when the speed drops down to 40 mph I hit the
starter and the engine jumps back to life and we roar off down the highway.
To digress briefly:
I know that some of you will be reading this and gnawing your fingernails to
the quick. "Why," you ask, "doesn't he fix something? First the bonnet, then
the coolant, then this! Pull over! For Christ's sake, fix something!"
Well, the simple fact is that I can and will correct any little diffugilties
that can be easily identified and corrected or band aided. New radiator cap,
kluged bonnet latch, etc. But I know that any time I spend at the side of the
road trying to diagnose and fix any real problem will be a waste of time at
the best and downright dangerous at the worst. At 95 degrees and 90%
humidity, if I can't get moving again in under 10 minutes, I will have to give
it up.
So, if I can keep it together and safe, of course, and keep moving everything
will work out. If something really does break down, down, down, which is
always a real possibility, I will wait for a cop to call a tow truck to take
me and the 'Beam to a garage. Then we will sort it out.
End of digression.
We motor sedately up the four-lane to the little town of Elgin, Texas, home of
the best Central Texas Hot Guts made. Oh, sure, you can talk about your East
Texas Hot Guts or your South Texas Hot Guts, but in Elgin you can get the real
thing at the city butcher shop down by the railroad tracks. Just a link of
sausage on a piece of butcher paper, some chips, and a plastic fork and you
are in bidness. Mmmmmm, good!
It is, however, a filthy little joint. Sawdust floors, blood on the walls,
the whole bit. Not for the faint of heart, donchaknow?
I haven't been in the place for over 10 years so we are definitely stopping to
have a link for lunch but I am shocked to find the venerable joint boarded up
and closed. And to judge by looking at the outside, the butcher shop has been
closed a long time, more's the pity. I guess progress comes even to Elgin,
Texas.
So, I top up the coolant, just in case, and we head on for my daughter's place
in Round Rock, just on the outskirts of Austin, where we plan to spend several
days before heading towards New Mexico once again.
It is just after noon when we pull into the -- you guessed it -- Wal Mart
parking lot a couple of blocks from our daughter's place. We put only 121
miles on the car today. I need the Wally to run some photos through the 1
hour place as I know the kid will want to see them right away. The kid will
be at work for several more hours...
At her empty house, photos in hand, I break the code on the electric garage
door opener, park 'Beamish inside, and disable the door so her remote won't
work. She knows we are coming and she knows that we are arriving sometime
today but she does not know we are driving the 'Pine. She has somehow gotten
the idea that we are flying in.
Heh, heh, heh...
--Colin Cobb, Pausing For R & R Outside Round Rock, TX
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