The Burningham family is officially stuck in Flagstaff. Not entirely unexpected with the problems we had on the way up, but I thought I’d repaired it. Not the case.
We went gangbusters up the first couple of grades toward Flag, but the thing really started bucking at around 4000 feet. We made it to the ponderosa line and the danged truck quit cold. Well, a more apt description would be hot. We let the fuel pump rest for a half hour while playing with cell signals flitting around like sparse wood thrushes unwilling to be caught.
We finally coaxed the thing to life and ran it for ten second increments, re-starting on the fly until we got to Mund’s Park. Tragically, the second domino fell in the long line of sad events on this trip home, as the sole mechanic in the little town had left only ten minutes previous and was headed home where he had no phone. We beat the truck until it began running and played the same nerve-wracking game twenty more miles to Flag. What a trip. We then nursed the rig from closing shop to just closed shop, where each attendant or mechanic said that he couldn’t help us.
There was one shop open, willing to do the job. two closing shop owners cautioned us in no uncertain terms that we should watch them during the entire process and get everything in writing. Everything.
My curiosity got the best of me. This shop was run by a few men who looked like they were more interested in heading to the bar, and the man in charge started off way too adversarial for my comfort. We blazed out of there and went to a nearby TacoBell/Long John Silver’s to reconnoiter, eat and regather my frazzled nerves.
I called around to my Spring City friends to see if I could get some ideas and hear some friendly voices. That really helped, it helps to be able to bounce ideas off of people who care about what you’re going through, and my mom and dad were ready to do whatever they could. But I hate bugging people and really wish I could have done this quick and simple without bothering people with my neediness, savvy?
I decided to call our home-town Bishop to see if he could pull some resources from his bag of Bishop-tricks, and after an hour of lookup and talk, he found a local Bishop who was willing to make some calls for lodging and offer some suggestions on where to fix the danged Suburban. Blessings to them both. Their help was a very good thing, because as we were pulling out onto the main drag, the thing quit cold and there wafted into the interior a burned-out electrical smell. The truck didn’t go anywhere else on its own power anymore, limping or not.
We called a tow company suggested by the local Bishop for just this situation, and got a very expensive ride going backwards on a tall flatbed to the other end of town where we had arranged lodging and a couple of good shops were if we had to wait until Monday.
I got to bed finally at around 12:30, after walking over to SprawlyMart to get poor Moshe something to eat.
Man, there are a lot of Hipsters around this college town at 12:00 am. Kids on cruiser skates, people toting soymilk around, Vespa shirts, etc.
Now we’re hanging out watching the network première of 'O Brother Where Art Thou?' on TNT. The kids are enjoying it. I’m having a hard time just breathing, to tell you the truth, but I’m a Dult. Kids are a good example, and I’m sure they’ll teach me more of the Water Way than my all my life’s studies combined.
Happy Easter, all.
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