For auto maintenance, he's the man

My education in automobile maintenance has been gradual and has accompanied my liberation as a woman. (Are you picturing me in greasy coveralls, a tire jack in one hand and a grease gun in the other? Well, don't quite yet.)
At 19, when steam billowed from the sides of my '69 Cougar's shiny blue hood, I learned, for the first time, that a car has a radiator, and that mine had no water in it. I had been driving for three years.
Then I discovered that a car has springs, and that they can break, especially if you repeatedly drive over big Dukes of Hazard bumps and scream, "Whoop, whoop, wee-ha!"
Years later, I learned why cars have oil. I drove a VW van until it didn't have any, and then I drove it some more. When it was engulfed in a black cloud, the van and I coughed to the side of a freeway in California. I got out, looked over the gray billows, thought, "Huh."
It cost $2,500 to rebuild the engine I had fricasseed. That was an expensive course.
Next, I found out that if you ignore rust, it has a tendency to put big gaping holes in the sides of your car.
A rule of thumband an addendum
That completed my overall lesson, which was, "If you plan on owning a car, you'd better learn how to care for it," and the addendum, "Better yet, hook up with someone who does." I chose the addendum.
I can quite honestly say that, in my entire life, I haven't once gotten the car's air conditioner checked, radiator flushed, oil changed, or tires rotated, without first being prodded by a man.
Sure, you may think me not liberated, but that couldn't be further from the truth. A person can only know so much about so many things, and I have drawn the line at my car.
Thankfully, I married John, whose line is drawn elsewhere. In the last 25 years, since I said, "I do," when it comes to thinking about automobile maintenance, I don't.
Car maintenanceis in his blood
Having a husband like John is like owning a car maintenance alarm clock.
It doesn't matter that a little oil/mileage countdown sticker is inches from my forehead whenever I drive, or that the odometer ticks away before my eyes. I don't need to look at that sticker. I don't have to check that mileage. I just have to wait until my alarm goes off:
"Honey, it's time for an oil change."
My sole contribution through the years is to announce breaking news bulletins. For example,
"The car goes 'whoo-whoo-whoo, critcha, critcha, thump' when I hit the brakes."
"There is a 'mmmMMMMmm' when I speed up."
"The window is going 'gitcha gitcha gitcha gitcha' when I push this."
"When I stop, the car sound like a stuck pig -- 'squeeeeeee'."
Not to fear, I found a man who speaks this language. He offers intelligent responses like,
"You need new pads."
"The speedometer cable is going out."
& quot;It is off the track. & quot;
"You need to buy domestic pads instead of imported ones."
Internal clock saysit's time for oil change
But most importantly, John carries a maintenance schedule in his head. I don't have to worry about oil or water or any of the things that will steam, fry, or bake my car.
One morning John's internal clock will alert him to the fact that my tires need to be rotated. They have tired of seeing the same old view day after day from their side of the car, and John knows this.
Another day, he will look at that little oil sticker and inform me I am 50 miles overdue.
Another, I will be told that Lincoln's head can be seen completely when a penny is placed in my tire tread. I do not question this odd behavior; I buy new tires.
I think this is swell. And if John comes to me when he needs a letter typed or the menu for a party planned, it's OK; he has drawn his lines, too.
For me, giving up on car school has been most liberating.
murphy@vindy.com