Dec. 19, 1994
After nearly three decades of driving, I changed my first flat tire.
Fortunately, my teen-age son was in the car when we hit a chuck-hole and heard the ominous hiss. It took both of us, but between us, we did figure out how to change the tire somewhere south of Haynesville, La.
The biggest puzzle was what to do with that metal stick that looked like it had been caught in a door when it slammed shut. We did figure out it would not fit length-wise into the holes at the end of the jack, but what were we supposed to do with those couple of prongs sticking out one end? The genius of the family finally fitted the little ends into the “0” and “U”” shaped end of the jack, matched it with the “jack here” spot on the car. Presto, the bent metal rod became a turning stick. The jack moved up.
I assured my son that the small brother tire would get us home as good as the big brother tire. I lied. That little tire shrank into the metal circle that held it in place.
The screech of metal riding on asphalt pulled us off the road, again.
Some people have all the luck. We were right next to a convenience store with an air pump.
I carried and rolled the old tire over to the air pump. I had to get a quarter from my teenager to make the machine work. When I pumped air in, it hissed out. One wasted quarter. Under better light, I saw that the rim was bent.
As I puzzled over what to with two flat tires in the middle of Haynesville after the streets have been rolled up for the night, a man and his two kids came out of the convenience store.
He walked over and asked if he could help. Seeing the bent outer rim, he went to the trunk of his old car and hauled out a heavy wooden box of tools with a thick rope. With his thick, short curly black beard, the guy looked like young Saint Nick carrying his red wooden pack of tools. As he set them down he said, “They aren’t much, but God helps me make do with the tools I have.”
God did, too. He whanged and banged that rim back into a semblance of its original self. I used another borrowed quarter. It actually held air well enough that a slight bulge showed near the point of repair.
The gentle bearded one helped my teen-aged son change the shrunken little tire back to the “slightly worse for wear” original.
“Better air up the spare in case you need it before you get home.” I borrowed another quarter.
Back at the convenience store, he looked at the two tires, “I would feel a lot better if we put the small tire back on. Would you let me change it for you?” We let him change the tire again.
As my teenager put away our tire and jack, the man shrugged off my offer to pay him, “No, I prayed and asked God if I should help you. I won’t accept any money. I’ve also prayed over those tires to keep you safe on the way home.”
I told him thanks and we headed on home. The tire held up just fine, thank you, God and mister bearded one. May it be another couple of decades before I have to change another tire.
(Joan Hershberger is a news clerk at the NewsTimes.)