OCR Text |
Show MDBmnntafimi 'Lt' j''v' b 1Nan Chnls" When a foreign import is the victim of a long winter My car looks as though it was recently used in a winter encampment for the entire Cossack army. It is just a small car, but the dirt accumulated there suggests the aftermath of a large battle. The rugs bear the imprint of months of heavy snow boots now encrusted with muddy signs of spring. At night the floor coverings freeze so that in the morning they are impossible to pry out from under the seats for an airing. In the afternoon they thaw, turning the driver's side in particular into an instant swamp. The back seat is strewn with" what appears to be rejects from an Army-Navy store mittens with worn palms, gloves with tattered fingers, an extra sweater, a pair of muddy sneaker. Under the seats lies the evidence of several Dairy Queen raids and a winter's accumulation of gum wrappers, soda cans and discarded styrofoam coffee cups. There is also a rag-tag assortment of tools, snow scrapers, leftover laundry detergent and outdated newspapers. The back compartment is a no man's land. It is the domain of two long-haired dogs who love to shed, who collect animal artifacts and who have never learned to wipe their feet. The spare tire compartment is covered with balls of fur and the windows are textured with noseprints. And that is just a damage report from the interior. Winter has taken its toll on the outside as well. I have an inordinate fear of washing my car in the winter. I am convinced that if I do, the doors will freeze shut on the way home and I will spend the rest of my days locked in the icy grip of a foreign import. As a result the manufacturer's paint job on my vehicle has completely disappeared underneath a layer of sandblasted salt and road grime. In a large parking lot I have to rely on its barely distinguishable license plates for identification. On the way to work in the morning, I tum on the headlights so oncoming traffic can distinguish me from just another stretch of grey pavement. The windshield, too, bears the scars of a long winter. It is streaked with spray from mudflaps of oncoming semis and pock-marked with gravel hurled from a county snow plow. Most of the time I look out at the world through a misty veil of fine salt spray until it gets so thick I have to resort to the wipers and wash. For a moment, then, I am blinded by frozen streaks of wiper fluid and must switch to automatic pilot and faith. In short, my Honda and I are long overdue to a spring cleaning. Last weekend, I did manage to loosen the mat underneath the brake, gas and clutch pedals and to lift it out of the car without spilling too much of the road base which had accumulated there. The mat and the rugs spent the day steaming on a fencepost in the sun. On Saturday, I almost drove down to the car wash, but went skiing instead and I know now it was the right decision. It rained all day Sunday and as my car sat parked on Main Street it gradually returned to its original color. Still it will need plenty of attention this spring. Until then, hitchhikers and friends will have to understand my reluctance to offer them a lift. It's for their own good. |