Pumping and Screwing Along With The Best!

The Best Car Ever

When I first came to the Peninsula in a full-time capacity, I was single, drove a VW beetle, and usually got gas from Chuck Munsey at the Oysterville Store or from Tommy Goulter at his little station in Ocean Park.  By the time “service” stations became “gas” stations and you had to pump your own, Nyel had come into my life and he handled all the vehicular duties — including filling my gas tank.

And so it continued for almost thirty years.  I was smugly content in the belief that real women don’t pump gas.  And then… time went by, Nyel’s health issues segued into one-leggedness and being wheelchair-bound and pumping gas was out of his network.  Ditto getting on the step stool to change light bulbs, getting things off the top shelves in the kitchen or closet, or cleaning out the chicken coop.  And so, our ideas about the division of labor in the household had to be re-examined.

For a while, I actually timed my across-the-river shopping expeditions to the needs of my gas tank.  It was worth the trip just to stay in the car and let the attendant be attentive.  When Tucker learned of my weenie ways, he offered to go with me whenever I needed gas.  Pride (and sensibility?) interfered with that idea, and it wasn’t until a friend gave us a $50 gas card at Jack’s as a welcome-home-from-the-hospital present that I decided I really had to pull up my big girl panties and pump gas all by myself.  Hard to admit, but true.

As for those pesky high-up light bulbs — if I have to climb higher than the first step of our handy-dandy step-stool, I do ask Tucker.  Although… I’m thinking that he’s not all that much younger and god forbid I should be the cause of a neighborly accident.  I know the Fire Department will come and change light bulbs — they’ve even offered when they’ve been here on EMT duties!  But… it’s the pride thing that’s the hardest to deal with when it comes to old age and living “independently.”  (And don’t even bother with the platitudes and good advice unless you were born before 1936! I’m pretty sure I’ve been there, done that, and the tee-shirt is worn out.)

 

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