Author: Mike Gibbons

Car talk

I have made no secret over the years that I don’t know much about cars.

I mean, I can do the basics, such as jump start a car or change a flat tire. But when it comes to most things under the hood, beyond refilling wiper fluid, I’m pretty much worthless.

Speaking of wipers, when I replace mine, I ask the folks at the store to install them. While I may be able to figure it out, the story advertises in great big letters that they install wipers, and I don’t want them to feel as if their vinyl letter budget was all for naught.

So it should come as no surprise to you that I do not change by own oil. I am afraid that if I tried to do that the end result would be a chemical spill in my driveway that requires my family to evacuate.

Thus, best left up to the pros.

Recently, the little gauge on my dash popped up that said my oil life was at 10 percent, which I took to mean it’s probably time for an oil change. I’m savvy that way.

I rolled into a shop near my office for a quick change. As I was handing my keys to the guy behind the counter, I mentioned, “Also, that little horseshoe light with the exclamation point…”

“The tire pressure indicator light?” he interrupted.

“Yes.”

Now, a quick sidebar – I did in fact know what the light was for, as it had come on a few weeks prior, and I had checked my tires. I just couldn’t recall its precise name. That said, I had Googled the light and found that plenty of folks had the same issue, and they just lived with having the light on. So my tires were probably fine, but the pesky light just wouldn’t go away.

He told me that they would check the tire pressure, but that they could probably not turn the light off. However, he said after driving it a few miles it would probably go off by itself.

Sure, I thought.

After about 30 minutes, my car was ready to roll. He told me that they could not, in fact, turn the light off, but assured me that it would most likely go off once I drove it above 25 mph for a few miles. That seemed specific enough to have merit.

It did not have an ounce of merit.

I drove my car well above 25 for well more than a few miles, and the light just shined back at me, gleaming in delight.

My first thought was just to resign myself to having this light on indefinitely, as countless other motorists had clearly done based on my exhaustive research of a single Google search which led me to a single auto repair message board.

But after a few days, I decided this was going to bug me way more than it should. I drove to a dealership and went into the service department. I explained my dilemma, and that the folks at the oil change place had been unable to turn the light off. She said, “Did you push the button on the dash?”

“The what on the where?”

She came out from behind the counter. “Can we go to your car?”

We walked outside together. She opened the driver’s side door and reached down on the left side of the dash and pushed a button that I swear I have never seen. The light went out. “It’s recalibrated now.”

I said, “That was it?”

She said, “That was it.”

So the light is now off. And while I still know that I know nearly nothing about cars, at least I now know how to turn that light off. Which is more than apparently most people.

Mike Gibbons was born and raised in Aiken, S.C. A graduate of the University of Alabama, he now lives in Mt. Pleasant. You can e-mail him at scmgibbons@gmail.com or follow him on Twitter @StandardMike or at www.mikeslife.us.

Animals

Feeling squirrelly

I get that some people don’t like squirrels. They raid bird feeders. They gnaw on your house at times. And they scurry across your roof to make it sound like badgers are running across it.

But I try to give them my support.

I refer to my bird feeders simply as animal feeders. Whatever comes up there means the feeder has been a success.

I enjoy watching them chase each other in the backyard, zipping up and down trees and performing amazing acrobatic leaps.

And like any animal, if we find a squirrel in distress we will do our best to help it. Just a few weeks ago, my son was able to get a squirrel free that had gotten caught in some netting in a neighbor’s yard.

I consider myself to be a good friend to squirrels.

So why would they decide to straight up turn on me?

We noticed the problem a few months ago. The sound of the scurrying had intensified, and it sure sounded as if they were in our walls. And I treat animal issues much like I treat car issues. If there is a weird sound, I am very good at pretending not to have heard something in the hope that it will magically never happen again. My wife is not. And so it was especially bad timing when the scurrying occurred at the wall right at my wife’s back at dinner one night.

We decided we would inspect the house and see if we could find how they were getting in. My son and I went in the attic and found a little bit of gable screening had been peeled back. A few heavy duty staples later and problem solved.

OK, problem not solved.

The scurrying continued. Perhaps they were trapped inside the house now. I set live traps in the attic. Nothing.

I decided to walk around the outside of the house and see if I could find any possible way they could be getting in.

What I found is that these squirrels had gone from occasionally gnawing on a corner of the house here or there to straight up become giant furry termites. They had made a couple of giant entry points at both sides of the house, and if six of them wanted to go in side by side, there would be plenty of room.

We contacted a company to come out and give us an estimate on repairing the house (and further squirrel proof it). They came out to inspect the house, and at one point during the inspection, as we were looking up at one of the holes, a squirrel was kind enough to stick his head out, as if to say, “Yes, can I help you?”

The company that came out to give us an estimate clearly sensed how kind we had been to animals all of these years, and offered to do the repairs for free!

Yeah, not at all true.

But what is true: For the next six Christmases, my kids get squirrel home repair for a gift.

Once the squirrels are fully evicted and their mode of entry is permanently eliminated, I will get back to enjoying them again. I hope.

I will still try to enjoy their chase games. I will not shoo them from our feeders. And I of course will help an injured or trapped one if I could.

But don’t come back in my house again. Even I won’t ignore the sound next time.

Childhood Family

Shoe do you love

If you have never had the joy of shopping for shoes with a 16-year-old young man, I invite you to embark upon this adventure: Ask your dog what kind of shoes it would like. When he stares at you blankly, ask him then what size he wears. Wait for blank stare. Thus is life with a 16-year-old.

We had this delight recently when our son needed new shoes. He wears flip flops about 11.5 months out of the year, because those require the least amount of effort, and when it comes to fashion, that seems to be the teen boy bottom line.

But on occasion you need to wear actual shoes. Such was the case recently when we were heading to an event and our son needed non flip-flop shoes. My wife asked him if he wanted to go get shoes. His response was a long, drawn-out “Mom,” in which “Mom” has about 18 syllabes. She said she could go buy the shoes without him, but needed to know what size he wears. Cue “Mom,” but with 22 syllables.

In case you are wondering why we don’t know the size of our son’s shoes, it’s because he is at that age where he is growing at radioactive rates, and there is no telling from day-to-day what size anything is. Buy him some pants today, and they are clam diggers by the end of the week.

So my wife went to the store and bought some shoes. This is also a risky endeavor. My son has never been picky on brands and such, but I can also understand if we bring home something that he feels like no one his age would wear.

Alas, my wife is good like that. She picked out a pair he loved. And they were several sizes too small. He tried to get his foot in them, but it was a no-go. By a long shot.

Because my wife had already logged her miles on this venture, I told her I would take them back and get a new size. The ones she had bought were size 9. I asked my son what size he thought he could use. I should have asked the dog. I would have gotten the same reaction.

I opted to go for my size – 11. My wife thought I was overshooting with the size, but I rolled the dice. Having been on the fast track growth pattern in my teens, I know what it’s like to grow disproportionately and fast. I brought home the 11s. Perfect fit.

These shoes were gold stars for him, and he wore the heck out of them for weeks. And he got to where he would wear them when were tromping out in the woods. And that puts some wear and tear on shoes. While these shoes were still fine, he wanted a pair that was set aside just for school. Fair enough. I told him I could get another pair, and said we could go to the store and find some. “Can’t you just go and get them for me?” Fine. Yes, I’m an enabler. But it’s slightly better than being stuck in a shoe store with a brooding teen who would rather be fishing.

When I got to the shoe store, I started looking around and realized that there were a ton of shoes that looked somewhat like his shoes. I called my wife and asked her to send me a picture of Parker’s shoes. I approached the counter and showed the clerks the picture. Now, you often hear about the indifference of store clerks. These were not those clerks. They were aces. One of them eyed the picture and said, “Yep. That’s a (insert whatever the name of the shoe is here because I surely don’t remember it). Follow me.” In about five seconds, we had a box of the new shoes in hand.

I brought the shoes home, and they are a perfect addition to his modest shoe collection. I get that a 16-year-old has no desire to go shoe shopping. I don’t blame him. He’s got better things to do. Like wonder why his parents are asking him such lame questions about shoes.

Adventures Animals Childhood Family

Bee careful

My father has beehives. He got into beekeeping a few years ago, and he and my brother-in-law are the expert stewards of the hives.

The bees provide delicious honey, and are also really interesting critters to watch go about their daily bee lives.

Recently, we were in town and decided to go out and check out the bees. Normally, the bees are rather chill and you can walk right up to the hives and watch them come and go. But when the hives are being opened and the bees are being disturbed, it’s pretty much game on, and if you don’t want to be stung, keep a good distance.

My brother-in-law, Keith, had donned his beekeeping suit, and my son was going to be his assistant for this day. Parker suited up, and they approached the hives.

I stood back about 20 feet, as I have been there before when they check on the hives and stood closer, and let me tell you – that did not end well. My wife opted to watch the bee check-up from our car. As she said, “I know where they can’t sting me.”

The beekeeping was going well, and I was situated a good distance away watching them assess the hives. And then it became clear something had gone south. Mainly, this was because Parker said, and I think this is a direct quote, “AHHHHHHHHHHH!”

He began sprinting toward me, peeling off his beekeeper gear as fast as he could. “IT’S IN MY HAT!!!!” he screamed, as he tore off the protective top and the hat.

Fun fact about bees: they do not give up on a fight. Parker was out of the suit, but several bees were still coming after him. He began sprinting away from the hive, hoping to outrun the stings. He outran most of them, but logged about five stings on his head and neck from when the bee was in his hat.

I went back to retrieve the shed bee gear. The gloves and shirt were clear of bees. I picked up the hat, and saw a bee was still clinging to the mesh face protecting part. Figuring this bee would want to go home to his hive, I turned the hat inside out and gave it a few good shakes to free the bee. Turns out, he did not like that. And he blamed me.

So the next thing my wife saw from the safety of our car was me sprinting past her and the car, a beekeeping shirt being twirled like a helicopter blade over my head like crazy to try and keep the bee away from my head.

Once I was free and clear of any bee attacks, I went back to the bees (but in the safe zone), and Keith and I agreed our work here was done. I hopped in the car to head out. I lauded my wife on her wise choice at staying in the car.

And we drove about 100 yards when a heard a big BZZZZZZZZZZ in my ear. I swatted at my head, and a bee that had apparently been secretly riding with me presented itself, and proceed to fly towards the windshield. My wife was not exactly thrilled.

I stopped the car and told my to get out of the car. She did. Not my best call.

She stepped out of the car and plopped her foot firmly in a fire ant nest that was covered in sandspurs. She said … well, she conveyed that she was not cool with this current situation. I grabbed a plastic bag that was in the car and managed to use it to shoo the bee out of the car. All the while my wife was trying to delicately get fire ants off of her foot without being stabbed by sandspurs.

We eventually made it out with no more bees riding shotgun and no fire ants hanging on my wife’s foot, and eventually picked off all of the sandspurs.

It’s a small price to pay for being able to watch these amazing creatures and to enjoy their delicious honey. But next time we go check them, just a hunch my wife will let us do it without her.

Animals Childhood Family

Reality bites

Some might say that when you go actively looking for snakes, you probably shouldn’t be surprised when you get bitten by a venomous one.

Well, believe it or not, it’s actually more surprising than you would think.

The favorite hobby my son and I share is looking for snakes in the wild. My father is a herpetologist, and I have been doing this since I was a child. My son has followed that pattern. We love to get out and tromp in the woods and look for any and all critters.

And therein lies the surprise when my son called me while he was hiking with a friend and told me had been bitten. We are always looking for them. And we NEVER handle the venomous ones. Ever. That’s a rule. There is no need. We are out in nature to enjoy the amazing creatures, and unnecessarily handling a venomous snake it just asking for trouble.

I was heading out of my neighborhood on the way to the store when my son called. He had some panic in his voice. “Dad, I just gotten bitten by a cottonmouth.” I knew his general vicinity, a large park with miles of hiking trails. He told me which trail he was closest to. We settled on a rendezvous point which we could both get to in a matter of minutes.

I hung up and called home. My wife answered. I said, “Parker’s been bitten by a cottonmouth. I’ll meet you at the ER.” I’m not even sure if she said a word or just used her mom superpowers to immediately transfer herself into her car.

By the time I got there, he was hobbling up the trail, his friend helping him. I could see the puncture marks on his ankle, and his leg was beginning to swell. It was clear he was in tremendous pain. He told me that he had been in some water about calf deep (not an uncommon thing for us at all). He went to step out of the water and planted his foot on a cottonmouth that he did not see. The snake responded as was its snakey right. I imagine if something that much bigger than me stepped on my back I would not be happy either.

I arrived at the hospital a few minutes later and my wife was only moments behind us. Fun fact: Want to go straight through the ER and back into a room without even stopping to fill out paperwork first? Get bitten by a snake!

We were told that he would most likely have to be given antivenin (starting with four vials), which had to be given within eight hours of the bite. Having familiarity with snakes, I have seen many stories about the cost of antivenin. I asked the doctor how much a vial cost. He looked at me with a curious look. Perhaps he thought I was going to say, “Whoa, that seems a little steep. His leg isn’t THAT valuable.” I was not. I was just bracing myself.

We eventually had to transfer him to a different hospital, as the ER closest to us does not admit patients under 18 for an overnight stay, which he was going to have. In short order, we were transferred to a children’s hospital. Fun fact: A children’s hospital ER on a Saturday night is a super fun place to hang out! It’s heartbreaking to see little ones coming in throughout the night with various ailments and injuries. The folks who man those units and tend to the kids coming in are truly angels who walk among us.

Around midnight he was given the antivenin. The person administering informed him that this was a one-time treatment, and did NOT give him immunity for future bites. I can only assume that disclaimer has to be stated for a very good reason by someone who had previously been given antivenin. (“WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU FIGURED YOU COULD LET THEM BITE YOU NOW!?!?!?!?”)

He spent two nights in the hospital, the final 24 hours so they could monitor blood work and make sure his numbers stayed good. (I say “numbers” because that seems to be a good catchall to kinda sound medically smart but without having to actually try and nail medical terms that I may botch.)

When we left the hospital, his leg was still plenty swollen and he had to walk with crutches, which he would use for several days after.

He’s back on the mend now, and has even gone back out in the field. Yes, looking for snakes. I know snakes are not exactly beloved by many folks. But they are still loved by us. I value their role in the ecosystem and am fascinated by their mere existence. I will forever be a defender of snakes (and all critters out in nature). Yes, even the one that bit my son. We moved into their neighborhood, and we should respect them. After all, snakes have made it pretty clear: “Don’t tread on me.”

Childhood Family

Running on empty

While I have not been in college for decades, I remember vividly the college days, in particular that my gas tank and refrigerator were usually very close to empty.

And I remember when my folks would visit, and those problems would go away, as parents visiting you at college are oftentimes emergency relief funds.

Such is the case with our daughter. When we come visit, we do as our parents did for us – a run to the grocery store and the gas station.

Sometimes, however, the gas station run takes on a few extra steps. In particular when the car is stranded a few miles from your child’s home, as she ran out of gas.

We were about 45 minutes away from her when she called in a bit of a panic. My wife took the call, and went into usual mom mode, which was calming the situation down.

Oh, did I mention this was on a football gameday just a few hours before a big game?

My brother-in-law was already in town, so he went ahead of us and got the car secured and brought Allie back to her apartment. When we arrived, I told her to hop in the car with me, and we set off to solve the problem.

My wife and I had agreed prior to getting there that there was really not going to be any purpose in harping on the issue. As my daughter and I headed out, I told her as such.

“That said…” I said, causing her to sigh and slump, as she knew a parting mini-lecture was on its way. “Maybe this is the universe’s way of telling you that Starbucks can sometimes wait.”

“Fine,” she said. (I don’t think she was fine.)

We headed off to the nearest gas station. I went in and asked where the gas cans were. The clerk said, “Gas cans?” which to me seems like a really odd question at an actual gas station. It’s not like I came inside and said, “Yes, where do you keep your iguana food?” I was asking for a gas can, which is no doubt no. 2 on the list of containers people use to take away gas, right after actual vehicles.

I was told they did not carry those (or iguana food, I assume). So off to a nearby hardware store. Tick tock. Tick tock.

Then back to the gas station. Then to my daughter’s stranded car, which was parked in a game-day lot, so it was fortunately still there. I put a gallon or so in the tank and started the car. Good to go. With room to spare before gametime.

The next day, we took her car up to the gas station and filled it up. And, of course, we took a trip to the store to remedy the refrigerator situation. Our cart was the most “My Parents Are Visiting” cart you could imagine: Food, a printer, a deck of Uno cards.

I was happy to be able to come in and do the same thing for my daughter that my parents did for me on multiple occasions. I’m glad she has a full fridge and a full tank of gas. And I am hopeful that she will not gamble on an empty tank again for a Starbucks. In the end, it all ended up well. Except for if we need iguana food. I’ve got nothing there.

Uncategorized

Out of gas