During the last few decades of life sex-role stereotypes blur, thankfully, as men and women feel comfortable enough in their own skins to do the things they like best, regardless of what 'society' might say. Then there are the jobs that we inherit and would never ask for no matter what. For most women, I suppose, "kicking the tires" is one of those. For most men, maybe it's the ironing!

Kicking the Tires
By Claire Vreeland

One bright early summer morning I drove to Towne Fair Tire to get the tires rotated and wheels aligned as Paul had done every early spring. Paul and I were married for 59 years when he died last winter. He had always taken care of the car and now I try to remember the things he told me about maintenance. First of June is not early spring, and I did not dare delay this annual ritual any longer.

I drove into the tire store parking lot with some trepidation. A young man went out and crouched by my car, and barely glancing at the rear tires, said immediately, "You need two new front tires." We re-entered the shop where he began writing up a purchase order. He did not ask me what grade of tires I wanted nor offer any information. The tire store was aswarm with men, all going about their errand as purposefully as worker bees while their Queen bees sat royally at home. These men walked among the tiers of tires, selecting first one, then another from the top of the stacks, bouncing them on the floor, or thumping them in passing.

I was the only woman in the shop. I was uncomfortable in this atmosphere that smelled of new tires and testosterone. I could have joined the parade of men walking among the tires, but there was no way I could pretend I understood what the bouncing and thumping was about. I would have done better joining the dancers in an aboriginal village.

So, after the man tallied up the charge I wrote him a check for $162.60, having absolutely no idea if this was a good price or not. I decided I would have to trust this man. We had been doing business with Towne Fair for years and my husband had apparently found them trustworthy. I can't remember that Paul went through the thumping and bouncing ritual, but I can remember seeing him walking among the tires and speaking knowledgeably about them.

The man told me my car would be ready in about an hour so I strolled to a nearby K-Mart, a store I had not visited in over two years because I had been homebound taking care of my terminally ill husband. These days I often felt like an alien in the most ordinary of places. At K-Mart I walked about glancing at the merchandise. There seemed to be nothing I wanted or needed. You've really hit rock bottom as a woman when you no longer desire to shop, I thought. Well there was no one living with me now to tell me, as Paul did almost every day, "You look nice" or "That color is good on you. I like it." I began to see that cultures where widows wear a shroud made some sense. But widowhood has its own shroud of invisibility, I have found. Whether or not you like it or even realize it at first, you wear the mantle. Some couples stop asking you out. The couple who always wanted us, Paul and me, at their Memorial Day barbecue had not called this year. That was it. Other people had seen us as a couple. It was always PaulandClaire, or ClaireandPaul.

Already today I was eager to return to the sanctuary and privacy of my home. I returned to the tire shop. The car was not ready. There was no place to sit. A sign read, "Be sure to ask for your old tires." I did not do that. I knew Paul would have. But would that not present further problems? Did I want to have to dispose of the old tires? Soon an attendant came in and handed me my keys. When I got into the car I found a note. "Tie rods are frozen. Get them fixed and come back in 30 days so we can align your wheels."

I was simply too tired to go back into the shop and inquire about this note. I drove home where the next day I found Paul's automotive repair book for Toyota Camrys, 1883-1991.

I found a diagram of the tie rods and other steering mechanisms connected to the wheels. I planned to sail into the local repair garage and sound knowledgeable this time. I went directly to the garage owner and its best mechanic. "Frank, could you get some penetrating oil on the tie rods so I can get the wheels balanced?" I asked him. "I went to Towne Fair and they said the tie rods are frozen."

"They often say that," Frank said. "It's because those guys are not mechanics and they don't want to be bothered. Tell you what, I'm busy today but we'll get you an appointment for next week, and I'll put the car on the lift to see what is the trouble."

On the appointed day my old 1986 Toyota with 192,000 miles on it was up on the lift and I was beside it looking up at the underside. Frank gave me a quizzical look. "Just checking for rust. She looks surprisingly good," I said. There, I was talking the lingo. I called the car 'she.' He seemed singularly unimpressed. He appeared to want to brush me off as one would an annoying mosquito. I retired to the waiting room, which was typical of such places. Oil stains on the floor. Furniture I was afraid to sit on. A wall chart showing all the various kinds of wear and tear on spark plugs. It reminded me of the charts in doctors' offices that show what happens to narrowed arteries. A pile of limp old magazines that I was also afraid to touch. I stood there devoutly hoping the amazing Frank could fix things so I can run the car as long as possible. Buying a new car will be really intimidating. I will definitely bring a man with me on that expedition.

Frank came into the office wiping his hands on one of those dull-colored mechanics' cloths. "Well, you will need new tie rods on the passenger side of the car. And one of the rear tires is worn. They should have rotated the least worn of the front tires to replace it and left the other one for your spare. You will need a new tire. I can't give you an appointment until the last week of June."

Seeing my disappointment he said, "The car will be safe for driving in the meantime. When you call me I'll order the tie rods and a new tire." I nodded my agreement. I thought it was funny, though. I rather thought that tires came in pairs like Mormons. Apparently Frank was trying to save me money. I had so hoped that this morning would settle the whole tie rod, wheel balancing thing. Then if it did not cost too much I was going to look for a bit of cosmetic work for the front passenger side of the car where recently my feisty old Toyota had battled with a stone wall. The stone wall had won. It had ripped a chrome strip from the side of the car and removed a mud flap from behind the right front wheel, leaving a cavity that is unsightly. Meanwhile the stone wall stands in New England stoicism, neither snow nor rain nor my Toyota able to disturb it. Probably no one else would even try to save a vehicle this old with such high mileage. Yes, the old girl has been around the block a few times. But she is my friend.

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Vreeland is a writer living in northwestern Connecticut. Her newspaper column "Claire's Compendium" appeared in the former The Winsted Citizen for more than ten years.

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