It was supposed to be a romantic vacation for Gary and me, and we chose the location very carefully. The first time we’d passed through the Northern California wine country on our way home from Disneyland, we had a carload of four overheated, under-enthused sons aching to get home. Now we were going to enjoy these sights from a new perspective, a couple’s point of view. We made lots of plans, and by the time we left Portland my expectations were sky high.
We were only a few miles from the St. Helena Vineyard when it happened. The car stopped running. Clearly this was not a minor problem but a major glitch. We did what all persons who have car trouble do: lift the hood, look perplexed, jiggle some wires, unscrew this and that and put them back, and finally accept the fact that you’re not going anywhere. Standing by the side of the highway in 90-degree heat, my feet felt that they were going to melt into the pavement — as were all my well-laid plans.
A police officer would have been a godsend. Our Samaritan came in a different package, however. A graffiti-covered van with several young people hanging out the sides turned out to be our salvation. At first it seemed that they were headed in the opposite direction, thankfully, and probably wouldn’t turn around for us. But the Kentucky Blue Grass Band did turn around, and even though they looked like the kind of people we tell our children to avoid, desperation can wreak havoc with one’s caution.
The van was open-sided, and part of the front seat was an old sofa cut in half. Someone in the back was playing a guitar. Climbing in, I considered my escape plan.
