"Better Than I Expected"
Posted: Saturday, June 25, 2011
by Patricia Barbee
http://www.patriciabarbee.com
Friends, let me preface this with a bit about my late Dad. He was a General Motors Master Mechanic. In his house's dining room was a specially built case to hold his plaques, certifications and trophies. Dad's words to me when I asked why all this"stuff" was in the dining room. I got a life's lesson: "If you are good enough to eat at my table, I am good enough to let you see how I earned the food you are eating."
All the vehicles I bought or rented had to be American made based out of Detroit. Americans should keep Americans employed was Dad's mantra.
Dad picked my first car, a Ford. It was great. Upheaval came into my life and I changed to a "drive out the show window" Chevrolet Malibu. That was the worst car ever made in Detroit. In thirteen months, it slept at the GM dealer's thirty-three nights!!!!!!
Along the years I've stuck with GM cars until Dad treated me to an emerald colored Lincoln, to match my birthstone. That Lincoln was pampered, but it had to give up the ghost one day. It did.
I got an Oldsmobile wagon. Super, I was able to carry lots of stuff. I'm a bibliophile and was and still helping to build a library in North Georgia. They have had everything needed, for years including the Bill and Melinda Gates Foundation computers. The library has never opened because the local counties are "in charge" of libraries. The unnamed county does not give a flip and has held up the inspection of the building as required by the State.
I got a call from the headquarters of the best known East Coast poultry processing companies to tell me they had books for the library. Off I went. That Oldsmobile wagon was so loaded, I dared not drive the speed limit.
I got fifty feet before my driveway and the car died. I was not making the delivery the next day to North Georgia.
I called my "car guy" to come get my car and fix it. My "car guy" flat-bedded my wagon to his shop to see what was wrong. The repair was not worth my money.
I called all the car dealers I knew selling American cars. That was a Friday. None returned my phone call. My Angel told me to call a dealer, I'd only chatted with at the post office. Early Monday morning, I called him and after a long chat, he said he had the car I needed.
It was "used". I told tell him I'd walk to the main highway because he'd never find me in the family forest.
I met him. He slid over and let me drive back to his dealership. It was a Buick. I asked the dealer if I could have my "car guy" check out the car. "Of course", was his response.
I called my "car guy" and told him I was coming in with a Buick I was thinking of buying. The dealer put clip-on special license plates for me to drive the car to my "car guy".
My "car guy" took better than two hours to give the car the fine tooth comb. I had a winner. Buy it. The car had the original Buick book. That was a tell-tale sign of a well cared for vehicle. We Car-faxed the car. It was pampered by previous owner!
So we loaded all the books from the Oldsmobile wagon into the Buick and I went to my local library where I was President of Friends and put all the books in a store room. My Library had for years been assisting me with the library in North Georgia.
I took the Buick back to the dealer and said, "Write it up. It is mine". He did.
I cannot imagine driving anything other than that Buick. It spends lots of time rolling at seventy miles per hour on the Interstates. On long good trips, I've seen the computer show me I am getting FIFTY-ONE miles per gallon many times. The longest trip was 2552 miles, round trip and not a single problem. Rain kept it washed. The paint finish is divine.
Roaming around without air conditioning, I get about twenty-nine miles per hour. With the air on the mileage is almost twenty-seven miles per gallon.
My "car guy" keeps my darling Buick pampered. Should I need a new part in our small area there are at least four places for him to call and get whatever is needed. We don't have to wait for a ship to cross the ocean.
I still heed Dad's words, the car trunk must an auto tool kit, a wand-spray can of WD-40; fire extinguisher and fluorescent safety markers in case of emergencies.
My Dad has to be grinning from The Other Side. Buy American!
Patricia Barbee © 2011
Patricia Barbee
SearchWarp.com
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Top-level comments on this article: (1 total)51 miles per gallon, that's good Patricia.Yes, indeed, 51 miles per gallon. The first time I saw that on the car's computer, I freaked. I thought something was wrong. I pulled off the Interstate into a service station. I did add petrol until the nozzle clicked off. [Never top it off. That can cause an air-lock.] Back on the Interstate, rolling at 70 mph, on cruise control, the 51 appeared again. Upon arrival at my pals' residence, one checked my car and said it was fine. I had a good GM engine. My "car guy" and crew not only do the usual checks and maintenance on schedule and demand, but for my car we have a standing joke. I can not use that phrase in "polite company". Because I live in a family forest and we have many dirt roads, my engine gets a "pneumatic" blast of air over the entire engine and then the connections are rechecked. My engine is never dirty. A clean engine is good for gas mileage. Dad taught me a lot about V8 engines. Had he lived longer, I'd know as much as the Sixes. Thanks for your time. Karma!
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