Through the Looking Glass: 25. Meet Me At The Car Wash

Monday, December 3, 2012

25. Meet Me At The Car Wash

As the winter snow begins its annual spring meltdown car wash owners must certainly rubbing their hands in glee. All that melting muck splashing onto windshields, coating the hood and plugging up the door locks is guaranteed income for owners of these businesses. When the simple act of washing my vehicle is not enough I am offered vacuuming, waxing, polishing, scent conditioning a tune-up and a new transmission before I leave.

These efforts to extort more money at each visit than I earn in a month have caused me to curtail my visits to the car wash this spring. I am determined to keep it clean through my own efforts rather than succumb to more browbeating at the 'wash'.

Saving money has been great despite some of the minor inconveniences that have cropped up. The ground squirrels that pop up from the hood whenever I blow the horn are distracting but not dangerous. The same could be said about the constant whining, 'my turn on the periscope' every time we go for a family drive.

Other people in the neighbourhood have been less than subtle in sharing their thoughts on my dirty car. The kids who write 'Plow Me' on the trunk are one thing but the ones that smile sweetly and query 'Mow your car Sir?' are simply to much. On the plus side many people never notice that the 'Satelite Antenna' is actually a sapling that is growing rather well.

Following this Good Earth Mantra has led to a period of discovery. I discovered that the noxious odour coming from underneath the rubble in the back seat was the missing hamster. I discovered that every time I hit the brakes a landslide of empty coffee cups spills over to the front seat. I discovered crop circles on my roof. I discovered that potential carjackers take one look and flee screaming. I discovered that turning on my headlights produces copious quantities of fried grasshoppers.

As determined as I am to hold to my course there are things that tell me 'it's time'. The energy involved in chasing down the garbage truck to retrieve every week has become to much. The cost of spraying 'Roundup' to keep down the weeds on the hood has become exorbitant. The cost of replacing the windshield wipers with chisels is actually higher than the cost of car wash I've been avoiding. At this point I promise to do exactly that... as soon as I clear up this charge from Environment Canada about 'unauthorised moving of a landfill site.'

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Introduction

Having moved at least twenty-five times in fifteen years has opened a world of learning to me. In six decades, an education ranging from the coldness of large cities to the isolation of remote rural locations to the busybody gossip of small towns and the wonder of the prairie and it's ocean of grass have all left their impressions on me.

Recently I relocated to a small city in British Columbia. It touted itself as a historical, cultural, educational and, over-all wonderful, place to live. Once I was past the trees and the rocks, the heights and the hills, the water and the wind, I calmed down and was ready to look at the people I was sharing that space with.

Every location I have ever squatted has had it's share of characters. Players in the cities along with the wide range of tinfoil hat wearers and baggy pants skaters were a given. Pop up strangers at odd hours surprised me with their appearance in the middle of nowhere. Rumours of my serial killer past from neighbours I had never met never swayed me. The wonder of gazing on the effects of wind on the grass ocean interrupted by a landowner enquiring why I was leaning on his fence was oft forgiven.

In this new locale a variety of characters as I had experienced elsewhere was a given. The density and variety of them however gave me more surprise than I would have expected.

I had heard comments about this place being a time warp to the sixties. However I only saw few that , by their appearance, I could say lived through the sixties. What apparitions appeared were younger and more colourful than I remember from that vague decade.

Purple haired strong armed accordionists, heavy head shaved violinists clutching tiny instruments, winter coated scarf wrapped individuals in shorts and oddly calm people with large coffees wandered the streets.

They wandered in and out of new age crystal shops, expressed opinions on local radio, bought nothing but organic food. They played jazz on squeeze boxes, made strings and wood sing in ways not intended, talked to themselves as they tightened their scarves and became more serene with each sip of coffee.

Characters here are more concentrated than in any other locale I have ever lived. It is a point of interest as well as point of concern.

It remains to be seen whether I will be mugged with organic carrots, side swiped by hooligan mountain bikers, be harangued with advice on dressing warmly or kept awake nights by jazzy sounds from an errant squeeze box. Whatever the outcome I am certain I could find it in no other place on earth to explore these particular uncertainties.

Until I am transplanted again, I extend every new-ager and boarder, every subculture economist and spiritualist, every would-be and wanna-be my deep thanks for extending me the opportunity of educating myself one measure more.