Hubby is still recouperating from last week’s lung biopsy and unable to do his usual tasks.
The trash collection truck may not even come tomorrow, with it being so cold, but it just might, and I did not want to miss the opportunity to evict the vile quintet of trash bags that appeared to breed overnight in our home. And so, in temperatures of 26 degrees Fahrenheit, I layered a thick sweater, jeans, and boots on top of thermal pajamas and socks, and set out upon what would seem to be a simple quest.
I would soon discover that getting the not-so-fantastic five out of the house was the easy part.
Arrived at the Jeep, I tried the driver’s door. Frozen shut. Passenger side. Three attempts and it opened as if by magic.
Damn, I’ll have to climb over. Oh, well. Needs must.
The back door tried to stay closed, but I managed to jimmy it open, placed the – now leaking – bags inside, and closed it.
Halfway there! Now to get her started…
After what I was sure resembled a display of contortionism worthy of a sideshow, I reached the driver’s seat, put the key into the ignition and, stiff as it was, turned it.
Splutter. Cough. Whine. Whirrrrr. Rumble. Five attempts to start the Jeep finally bore fruit and, together with our stinky load, we trundled down to the trash-box.
Now, those of you who have seen our place know the adventure that is our driveway, at the bottom of which sits said trash-box. I navigated with care and stopped at the creek that crosses our property.
Not frozen. Flowing, but not too fast. Not deep. Good! Here we go.
Georgie Girl, the Jeep, ambled across, with a little help from my right foot, and stopped obediently at the box. I shifted her into “park”, reversed my contortions of a little earlier, and exited the passenger door, scooting around the back to rid my trusted vehicle of her smelly charges.
“Oh, come on, Georgie. You know you want rid of that horrible load. Open up, girl.”
Alas, the door remained jammed shut, and despite my efforts to make it otherwise, this time it would not budge.
I stood for a moment and pondered aloud. “The passenger seat lifts forward. Yes, that could work. More than one way to skin a cat. Eh, Georgie?”. A nasty saying, but on this occasion, it fit.
I duly contorted – again – and scrambled around inside the back of my poor, hard-done-by Jeep, retrieving the quintuplets of squalor, one by one, until I could swear to hearing Georgie heave a grateful sigh when the last miscreant left her.
Down I climbed, returned the seat, and propped the door. The last thing I needed was to be stranded there after all this with a re-frozen passenger door. After the deposit of five bags in one box, and the lowering of a heavier than expected lid, I no longer had energy or inclination to run over the road and check the mail box as I’d intended when leaving the house.
The journey back was less adventurous, thankfully, and I apologized to Georgie – for putting her through such an ordeal of smelliness, and expecting her to run in below freezing temperatures – when I put her into “park”, turned off the ignition, contorted over to the passenger seat for the last time, and gently closed her door.
“Your dog did it again.” Hubby’s voice melted through to me when I closed the front door. “You remember I told you he did it when he heard you come back from taking our house-sitter back to town?”
I wasn’t with it. “Did what?”
“Came up to me and, clear as day, said ‘Mama’. He was telling me you were home.”
Well, if that doesn’t beat all, and make the whole adventure worthwhile.