The Curse of the Pontiac

If you know me very well, you have heard a vehicular saga or two spawn from my life story. And if you doubted whether I was truly vehicularly cursed, well...

Here's one for the books.

Saturday morning was a time I've been looking forward to for a few weeks now -- I had signed up to take a class at the state historical society, one of my favorite places on God's green earth. At 7:30, a time I don't see most days due to my cushy reporter's hours, I'm springing out of bed and gathering my library ID and my copying card and my census binders into my backpack. I tossed the haphazard nonperishable food items left in the apartment into a plastic grocery sack for lunch and headed for the gas station to fill up.

It was a pleasant morning, with the thick blanket of snow rapidly melting and the sun up shining cheerfully in the sky. I was thinking about how much I loved Saturday mornings as I switched interstates.

A few miles down the road from there I found myself behind someone who clearly was not in a hurry. I went to signal left.

I pushed down to turn left.

Then I pulled up a little to turn the signal off. But as I pulled up, I noticed I could pull the turn signal rod in absolutely any direction I chose -- up, down, left, right, in circles -- but none of them were going to cause the turn signal to cease blinking on the left side. It instead now hung rather limply, almost dangling from the steering wheel column.

25 miles from home. 25 miles from the library. I had left early enough to leave plenty of time for library research before the class, so I turned around and drove the half hour back to my parents' to borrow another car -- with the left turn signal going that whole time, mind you.

When I returned back to my parents' that evening, my dad showed me the steel-cast part from inside the steering column that had simply decided to crack into several pieces. Though he can weld most of it back together, whether he can reassemble it properly with the connected mechanisms and fit it all back inside the steering column is still a matter of question.

Meanwhile, this tiny cracked piece -- since when does steel crack? -- has nearly caused my dad to take a sick-day from work and has created tumult in the family driving arrangements.

(Tumult's a great word. We're constantly making good and bad word lists at work lately...)