I took my beloved VW Westy to a new mechanic today. Don’t get me wrong, Brian B. out in Cokato has been great, but the 53 mile ride each way to his shop has become a bit of an issue.

So i’m trying a local guy who was recommended most highly by several Vanagon owners i’ve met over the past few months. I’ve got this “high hopes” thing going on now… hopes that this guy will see the true nature of my vehicle and be able to address all the weirdness. Of course he might call me at any moment and say, “yeah, thing’s a piece of crap… transmission’s all but dead, engine’s just about toast, you’ve got growing seam rust on the body and the air conditioning doesn’t work.”

I’ve developed the ability to block out my van’s problems not unlike a parent who can’t see that his/her kid is a horrible brat. While all those problems listed above are true (plus a few more) the vehicle is such a pleasure to drive i find it nigh impossible to put a dollar figure on keeping the vehicle alive. I’m also one of those car owners who believes in keeping vehicles forever. Talking to me of “depreciation” or “resale value” is pointless.

I spoke with my sister last night. She was unaware the closing had happened. There are several possible causes for her lack of knowledge. First, our attorney may never have called her. Or he may have tried to call, but since her answering machine is rarely on, or if it is on has no identifying message, he may have chosen to not leave any message. There are other possible reasons i won’t list here.

I tried to broach the topic of the money… how it might be wise to distribute half of our respective halves now, but she was too emotionally engaged in the final sale of the house to make much sense.

As for me, I am glad the house is no longer ours. I never liked nor felt comfortable in that house. I felt it didn’t like me. I was always creeped out in the basement or attic.

There were also two events that i’ve never forgotten despite the more than 30 years that have passed.

When i was very young i slept in what we called the “tugboat room.” It had three windows in a semi-circle that resembled a tugboat’s wheelhouse. It was also sort of a penninsula sticking out of the house so it had windows on three sides. It would later become my mother’s room.

The tugboat room had a closet that always scared me. I used to feel icy breath on my hand and arm if i reached in to collect clothes. I always made sure to close the door completely, which took some effort owing to the fact the house was old and there wasn’t a 90 degree angle to be found. Everytime i’d come home from school the closet door would be ajar and i’d quickly close it again.

Then one morning something woke me up. It was early, but there was plenty of light in the room. Then, from the direction of the closet, i heard a sound that made me duck under the covers. What it was i’m not sure, but it was loud enough that i simply reacted and ducked for cover. Then… while i was hiding i heard a second sound that i recognized. It was the sound of the closet door popping open. See, it took effort to open the closet door too, and that was a sound i knew.

I remember thinking, “whatever’s out there, this stupid blanket over my head isn’t going to help,” and i threw the blanket off an looked expecting to see my own death walking towards me.

There was, of course, nothing there. The closet door was securely closed, the house was silent. But i was shaking. I’d heard something.

Then there was the day the house hurt my mother.

All the windows in the house except one were the old-fashioned sash-weight type. The exception was a window on the first floor that looked out at the “dog run” in the back of the house. It had these funky rubber friction locks that would have to be disengaged, you’d slide the window up, then you’d engage the locks and the window would stay up.

My mother was washing the windows as she always did, by hand with vinegar and newspaper. I remember seeing her slide the window open as i passed by on my way to the basement probably to break things. I was down in the basement, acually directly under where she was washing, when i heard a crash and her scream.

I ran upstairs. The window had come down on her hand and crushed it like a piano lid. Worse, the locks had engaged and she was caught. I opened one and she opened the other, we slid the window up and she retrieved her hand. There was a lot of blood. She ran to the kitchen and began washing the wound. She yelled at me to stay away.

I looked at the window. It was staying open where we’d just slid it to free her hand. The locks were working as intended. I tried to force the window down. It wouldn’t budge. I caught myself thinking, “somebody had to release the locks.” And then i realized this is the only window that would drop if released. It was the only one without counter weights.

My mother wrapped her hand in brown paper (the penicillan of my childhood was brown paper) and sought help from a neighbor. I don’t recall if she broke any bones, but she later developed arthritis in the joint that had be caught. She always credited that accident with causing her pain later in life. And she never washed that window again.