Sometimes there is a magic to car problems, or maybe I am just an optimist.

Sometimes there is a magic to car problems, or maybe I am just an optimist.

On this particular occasion the magic I am referring to had to do with a screw, rush hour on a busy interstate, and how I managed to make it safely all the way to our campsite before even noticing the tire-screw combo. I have a tire pressure sensor that is an over-achiever. It just gives its all 24/7—as in it never turns off and is basically useless.

I happily began to inspect our campsite, and the children were trotting about making odd noises that children make while talking about exploring the woods to search for ostriches. Mind you, we aren’t in Africa, but I suppose that is what makes ostriches so exciting. My husband had been napping in the front seat after a long day at work, and awoke with a sort of tire sixth sense.

“I’m going to check the tires,” he mumbled, and there it was—the rear tire on his side was sporting a new piercing without asking any of us to sign a permission slip. It was doing the tire version of bleeding out. And we were surrounded for several miles by that soft lovely grey stuff. That grey stuff is tiny pieces of rock with a teensy bit of organic matter mixed in, which is the way to differentiate it from that fluffy white stuff next to the waves. It is the soft, fluffy, delicate earth that you probably call sand. It is lovely for digging a hole in; it is less lovely for setting up a jack.

We have owned this wonderful van of ours for seven years now, and had yet to have to change a tire away from home. The spare was sleeping deeply in its mystery location on the undercarriage. My husband had just found a solution to our sand problem by coming up with a nice, big, flat piece of firewood, and I thought Now is a perfect time to brush up on my tire-changing skills.

I have yet to ever need to change a tire, but it isn’t rocket science. I can do things harder than this, I said to myself.

Step 1: Retrieve Jack from Inner Wall of Van

If this van were human, it would have a very big back-end, and there would be a pocket sewed into her inner thigh. This all sounds very convenient and logically, until you realize that the tools inside this handy-dandy compartment are basically shackled. It looked like there was some sort of magic spell on that thing, and finding the magic words to break that spell was going to require at least one YouTube video.

The husband sorted that out, and I do not have the least idea how, because let’s be realistic here—I’ve been using the same pancake recipe for ten years. Can I tell you off the top of my head how much baking powder goes in it? No. What are the magic instructions for removing the jack from its prison? Instantly forgotten.

No problem! I told myself. I know how to use YouTube.

Step 2: Retrieve Spare Tire from Undercarriage

Simple. There is a key-thing underneath the carpet next to the back seat. You just turn the key-thing, and somehow the tire, which is roped up underneath it all, comes down. Got it. First, find key-thingie. One problem—this requires pushing the back seat back. Like in most vans, the back seats slide back and forth…only we never slide ours back and forth. It hasn’t been done in about seven years. It was stuck. The kind of stuck that requires all my body strength, and only moves half an inch. The husband managed it just fine, and then the van gave birth to a spare that had the tire version of vernix caseosa—seven plus years of dust.

_{I pretty much gave up here, but let’s go on anyway.}

Step 3: Loosen Lug Nuts and Set up Rickety Looking Scissor Jack

Maybe I should make a Step 2b: Pray You Can Loosen Lug Nuts. Anyway, I sat this step out from a chair I had made out of firewood on that soft fluffy gray stuff, so that the boy could have his time in the sun with his dad. The jack definitely reminded me of a twiggy-armed teenager attempting to lift some very heavy weights, while standing on one leg. The flat firewood underneath it did its job nicely under the circumstances.

Step 4: Remove Tire; Reapply a Tire

Our sad, injured tire looked so big and hulking and beastly. Probably we should name it something manly, like Bruce. And our sad little baby-faced donut went on and I’m pretty sure we should call him Cupcake. Sweet little Cupcake—he did the trick.

Bruce and Cupcake taught me something that camping trip:

First, sand is not our friend.

Second, I really should work on my upper body strength.

Third, Spare tires give me cravings for baked goods.

Fourth, there is nothing like being stranded in the woods and having your husband solve the problem to recall how attracted you are to said husband.

Fifth, I can’t change my tire.

Well, at least not without cellphone service/internet access or very good instructions. Some push-ups so I can properly show that backseat who the boss is wouldn’t hurt either, or maybe maintaining that sliding-track better.

Anyway, the sun turned gold, and then set somewhere in all those palm fronds and pine branches. Cupcake was looking grimy but brave, holding his own on one end of the van. The light turned blue and then seemed to fall into the fire, leaving us with only orange flame light. And I thought it was a perfect evening.

Sometimes there is a magic in car problems, or maybe I’m just an optimist.