A friend of mine showed me her newly cleaned car. She'd accomplished the task while her children were at dance class.
My car rarely gets a deep cleaning. Somehow, I never seem to get around to it.
old parking vouchers litter
My children have piano lessons, a 2-hour window in which I can read or knit or work on my laptop. This week, armed with inspiration (also rags and a spray bottle of cleaning solution), I attacked the windows and washable sections of the interior. I swept the detritus off the dashboard, but couldn't quite reach the dead bee that has been riding with me for the past 4 years.
a single dead bee faded
I cleaned the outer windows, the driver's door, the dashboard, the steering wheel and instrument panel. My cleaning cloths were thick with dust. I leaned forward to wipe the windshield.
the sudden blare
of a car horn
I jumped back. The horn kept blaring, so I tapped it to get it to stop. I leaned forward again, careful not to press against the steering wheel. The horn sounded again.
“Oh great,” I thought, “I'm interrupting their piano lesson.”
I walked around the car to attack the windshield from the passenger seat.
the insistent monotone
from the horn
The horn was in its groove now. I'd tap the horn to get it to shut up, and three seconds later, it started singing again.
I was getting more and more agitated, knowing that the sound would be irritating to the pianists. I envisioned driving home with a blaring horn.
light spring clouds
no visible signs
of a fuse box
My son came out to see why I'd flipped out and was leaning on the car horn. I instructed him to stop the horn for me while I hunted for the fusebox. The horn had been blaring off and on for about 15 minutes by this time. With my son hitting the horn every 5 seconds or so to stop its incessant noise, I was able to do a more thorough search for the fuse box.
I knew I knew where the fuse box in this car was; I just didn't remember where it was.
Finally, the horn gave us a breather. I popped the hood and instructed my son to go forward and see if he could see any signs of where the fuse box had to be.
As soon as he went, I remembered. I popped the lid on the dash and regarded the fuse box, with one particular fuse helpfully labeled HORN.
hand on the fuse
the notes of stargazing clear
in the sunshine
I left the fuse in place and closed the fuse box. I finished cleaning out the interior of the car, no longer so enchanted with the idea of cleaning out the car during piano lessons.
at least the windows
25 March 2010