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It's a horrifying thing to fear for one's transmission. To hear banging, clattering, thumping and scraping, and to be reasonably certain of its ominous origin. To dimly recognize noises from one's murky automotive past, and to be filled afresh with the dread and anguish of facing the thing head on. And yet face it we must. For, you see, we live in this car. It does not merely transport us from here to there. Such straightforward utility would be shallow, indeed. No, our car serves not only as transportation, but also as dinner table, office desk and daybed. Not to mention summer camp, classroom, emergency room and confessional. Within its walls, we parents have suffered through the lyrics to frightening songs on the FM, while our kids were trying to figure out how to ask us about the facts of life. Within its walls, they might have even heard us say a few choice words they didn't know we knew. Sigh. Admitting this car to the repair shop is a bittersweet affair. Who knows when we might see it again? Who knows what terrible procedure it may have to endure, and whether it will ever really be the same from this day forward? Now, more than ever, we realize how bound up our very existence is with this, our car. "Mrs. Raymond," the mechanic says somberly when he calls many tense hours later, "I think we've finally discovered the problem. It's not your transmission clattering after all…" "But, then…what?" I ask. "It's your dishes." Oh.

Posted by Katy on 07/12/01 at 08:08 PM

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Personal blog of christian writer & fallible mom Katy McKenna Raymond in Kansas City, Missouri Katy is represented by Greg Johnson at WordServe Literary Read more Katy at LateBoomer.net Follow Katy on Twitter Follow Katy on Facebook 123 Recent Posts Try Becoming Brenda Starr Off Beat Scattered That’s It So I’ve Finally Signed With An Agent. Now What? The Spoon Sciatica Sweetheart A Woman’s Train of Thought Has No Caboose However much we own, we are all still living on borrowed time After all, when restaurants shrink portions, they don’t shrink prices. As with everything in life, balance is key. Slow down, you move too fast… Yeah, I know. I have issues. Search Advanced Search Syndicate Login E me at katy @ ngenius.com	(No Title) It's a horrifying thing to fear for one's transmission. To hear banging, clattering, thumping and scraping, and to be reasonably certain of its ominous origin. To dimly recognize noises from one's murky automotive past, and to be filled afresh with the dread and anguish of facing the thing head on. And yet face it we must. For, you see, we live in this car. It does not merely transport us from here to there. Such straightforward utility would be shallow, indeed. No, our car serves not only as transportation, but also as dinner table, office desk and daybed. Not to mention summer camp, classroom, emergency room and confessional. Within its walls, we parents have suffered through the lyrics to frightening songs on the FM, while our kids were trying to figure out how to ask us about the facts of life. Within its walls, they might have even heard us say a few choice words they didn't know we knew. Sigh. Admitting this car to the repair shop is a bittersweet affair. Who knows when we might see it again? Who knows what terrible procedure it may have to endure, and whether it will ever really be the same from this day forward? Now, more than ever, we realize how bound up our very existence is with this, our car. "Mrs. Raymond," the mechanic says somberly when he calls many tense hours later, "I think we've finally discovered the problem. It's not your transmission clattering after all…" "But, then…what?" I ask. "It's your dishes." Oh. Posted by Katy on 07/12/01 at 08:08 PM Fallible Comments... Commenting is not available in this weblog entry. Next entry: (No Title) Previous entry: (No Title) << Back to main


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Personal blog of christianwriter & fallible momKaty McKenna Raymondin Kansas City, Missouri

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Personal blog of christian
writer & fallible mom
Katy McKenna Raymond
in Kansas City, Missouri