Released - to continue my life...

So I take my RRB to the small independent mechanic shop I found on San Pablo Ave this morning at 8a.m.

I made this appointment on Friday, asking the owner how tall the entrance to his garage is. I told him I need at least a 10' clearance if not 11 feet.

He's quick to assure me that of course {little womon} it'll fit, no problem.

And what do you know, this morning I'm parked out front 7:55a.m. waiting for the shop to open when that same owner approaches me and says she won't fit.

So back to the drawing board. After calling around some more, I decide to stop by my old mechanic that I haven't used in probably close to 20 years on the way to the dealer. And yes, they are not there - not even evidence of once being there as the hole area is now a huge open space with antena looking things sticking up.

I head resigned to the dealer. The guy behind the service desk is very sympathetic after I almost break down when he tells me it’ll be days if not longer before they can get to my RRB.

But then he tells me that if I don’t mind hanging around for a few hours, he will have the Isuzu mechanic come out and look at the brakes for 30 minutes in case it’s an easy fix.

And guess what? It was an easy “$107.00” fix! The rear brakes only needed adjusting…I thought I was looking at a $2000 job if it was the master cylinder…

I feel like I’ve been released – to continue my life!

You're white and male, and not about to allow us to live in peace without your guns

In case you're not remembering, we're having tons of rain in the bay - not as much as other parts of California, but still rain and cold.

In between wind and rain and cold, I'm trying to work on my RRB. Today, I'm trying to figure out how rain is getting inside the back half of the box.

No surprise there - I see a very neat, perfectly round maybe quarter inch hole that's been punched in the metal of the roof almost to the back wall we built so many years ago. I don't know how I haven't seen this hole before or how come lots more water hasn't ruined things back there - but there you have it.

There's also two bolts from the solar panels that have either punched holes in the roof or wiggled around so much there's now space between the bolt threads and the metal. These I have seen and have caulked before but they need re-caulking. So I've duct taped them down for tomorrow's expected deluge.

The other culprit is the air screen on the top passenger side of the wall originally installed to allow the clothes hanging back there some fresh air. The screen has deteriorated to the point that it is more hole than screen. That too has received duct tape over a piece of cardboard for now.

As I lower the back door, I see how there are also big gaps on the far edges of two of the door panels: one I can strain to reach and womonage to duct tape. The other is too tall and I'm not wanting to go lug a ladder from the neighbors to here.

So I wait patiently for a tall person to walk by. I don't have to wait long. I see a tall white young man walking down the sidewalk toward me. I see he is hanging up the phone so I ask him if he has a minute to help me.

He doesn't slow down when I urgently point to the door, holding out a piece of duct tape in my other hand, telling him I can't reach that high and need his height.

He is too polite and young to say no to this old womon. He kinda grabs the tape and places it randomly on the door panel as high as he can reach. I say no, and point out the hole the he is to cover. He reattaches the tape at the right place mumbling something as I thank him.

"Well," he says over his shoulder as he power on down the sidewalk, "I don't agree with what you say" gesturing vaguely around, "but," he continues kinda boastfully,"I believe in free speech."

I don't snort and say "I betcha do...." instead I feign shock and gesture where he did a few seconds ago and ask with all the incredulity I can womonage "You don't believe in ending violence against womyn and children?"

"Oh I believe in that," he assures over his shoulder, as he shrugs them to my "then what?" query.

"Oh, I know," I say, "you don't want to give up those guns."

He stops, turns with a big grin suffused with surprise and affirms my suspicion. "Of course," I continue, "you're white and male and not about to allow us to live without your guns."