“Lollygag”
Yesterday (Thursday, February 13th, 2014) I took my car to the local Ford-dealer in nearby Canandaigua to have its oil changed.
I used to do this myself — I have a pit in my garage. But with advancing age it’s got to be too much trouble.
Ford wants money, an oil-change ain’t free. It was free for my Honda CR-V, which my Ford Escape replaced.
I do it along with working-out at the YMCA, which is also in Canandaigua.
I drop my car off, after which they take me up to the YMCA. Then I call them after working-out, so they can come and take me back.
Working-out is at least two hours, enough time for an oil-change.
So I dropped my car off, and a young kid pulled up in a tiny white Ford Focus, the company courier-car.
We then motored up to the YMCA, and I said I’d wait at the door after I called back.
Workout complete, I called. The kid would come up and get me in that same tiny Focus.
I climbed in, and we headed back to the Ford-dealer.
He almost got T-boned coming out of the YMCA, a dangerous intersection where a railroad-bridge abutment blocks your view.
“I avoid this intersection,” I said.
Down through Canandaigua we motored on the main drag, back to the Ford-dealer.
To get to the Ford-dealer, we have to make a left-turn across a busy highway.
GrandPap was slowly approaching in his gray Dodge pickup.
“Come-on, Dodge,” the kid shouted.
“Phbt!” we had to wait for the Dodge.
“I can’t believe all the people out here lollygaggin’,” the kid exclaimed.
“Yeah, me, for example,” I thought. “I get passed all the time by angry Grannies shaking their fist at me.”
My car’s a V6, which means it’s probably strong enough to out-accelerate all those angry Grannies in their four-cylinder Kias.
But I can’t charge.
I had a stroke over 20 years ago, and I suppose it slowed me some.
I also drove transit-bus before my stroke, and it made me overly safety-conscious.
It seemed the only way to avoid Granny was poke.
And poke as I might, it seemed I could run on schedule.
And poke as I might, it seems I get where I’m going. Maybe 5-10 minutes later than the hurriers, but without incident, or even near-incidents.
“Lollygag;” what a beautiful word.
I set it aside for a blog — this blog.
It’s a word rarely used, and I wondered how the kid came upon it.
I almost said something.
• I work out in the Canandaigua YMCA Exercise-Gym, appropriately named the “Wellness-Center,” usually three days per week, about two-three hours per visit. (“Canandaigua” [“cannan-DAY-gwuh”] is a small city to the east nearby where I live in Western NY. The city is also within a rural town called “Canandaigua.” The name is Indian, and means “Chosen Spot.” It’s about 14 miles east. —I live in the small rural town of West Bloomfield, southeast of Rochester.)
• For 16&1/2 years (1977-1993) I drove transit bus for Regional Transit Service (RTS) in Rochester, NY, a public employer, the transit-bus operator in Rochester and environs.
• I had a stroke October 26, 1993, from which I pretty much recovered.
I used to do this myself — I have a pit in my garage. But with advancing age it’s got to be too much trouble.
Ford wants money, an oil-change ain’t free. It was free for my Honda CR-V, which my Ford Escape replaced.
I do it along with working-out at the YMCA, which is also in Canandaigua.
I drop my car off, after which they take me up to the YMCA. Then I call them after working-out, so they can come and take me back.
Working-out is at least two hours, enough time for an oil-change.
So I dropped my car off, and a young kid pulled up in a tiny white Ford Focus, the company courier-car.
We then motored up to the YMCA, and I said I’d wait at the door after I called back.
Workout complete, I called. The kid would come up and get me in that same tiny Focus.
I climbed in, and we headed back to the Ford-dealer.
He almost got T-boned coming out of the YMCA, a dangerous intersection where a railroad-bridge abutment blocks your view.
“I avoid this intersection,” I said.
Down through Canandaigua we motored on the main drag, back to the Ford-dealer.
To get to the Ford-dealer, we have to make a left-turn across a busy highway.
GrandPap was slowly approaching in his gray Dodge pickup.
“Come-on, Dodge,” the kid shouted.
“Phbt!” we had to wait for the Dodge.
“I can’t believe all the people out here lollygaggin’,” the kid exclaimed.
“Yeah, me, for example,” I thought. “I get passed all the time by angry Grannies shaking their fist at me.”
My car’s a V6, which means it’s probably strong enough to out-accelerate all those angry Grannies in their four-cylinder Kias.
But I can’t charge.
I had a stroke over 20 years ago, and I suppose it slowed me some.
I also drove transit-bus before my stroke, and it made me overly safety-conscious.
It seemed the only way to avoid Granny was poke.
And poke as I might, it seemed I could run on schedule.
And poke as I might, it seems I get where I’m going. Maybe 5-10 minutes later than the hurriers, but without incident, or even near-incidents.
“Lollygag;” what a beautiful word.
I set it aside for a blog — this blog.
It’s a word rarely used, and I wondered how the kid came upon it.
I almost said something.
• I work out in the Canandaigua YMCA Exercise-Gym, appropriately named the “Wellness-Center,” usually three days per week, about two-three hours per visit. (“Canandaigua” [“cannan-DAY-gwuh”] is a small city to the east nearby where I live in Western NY. The city is also within a rural town called “Canandaigua.” The name is Indian, and means “Chosen Spot.” It’s about 14 miles east. —I live in the small rural town of West Bloomfield, southeast of Rochester.)
• For 16&1/2 years (1977-1993) I drove transit bus for Regional Transit Service (RTS) in Rochester, NY, a public employer, the transit-bus operator in Rochester and environs.
• I had a stroke October 26, 1993, from which I pretty much recovered.
Labels: auto wisdom
posted by BobbaLew at 9:46 AM
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