By Esther C. Baird, first published in the Ipswich Local News September 28, 2022
Hey, regular readers! I’m back with a new column home.
Last spring, after our eldest daughter graduated from high school, our older dog, Blue Ears, passed away, and I resigned from my Church Land job of over a decade.
I needed a break. But after a summer of sun, travel, and fruity drinks, I’m ready to resume oversharing about life on the North Shore.
We’ll skip the world’s longest trip, during which we drove our daughter to college in Chicago through the cornfields of nothingness past the lakes of despair.
Here’s my Chicago travel advice: fly.
I’ll jump to the part where we realized a household that was down both a teenager and a dog was not a house for us.
Enter Nitro.
The name basically says it all. Plus, Nitro came ready to play with Moose, our five-year-old Bernese, because Nitro is two.
We skipped all the puppy exhaustion and went straight to the exhaustion that a grown Bernese mountain dog can bring.
Nitro is always happy. He buzzes with the sheer joy of being alive, which translates into motion. Up. Sideways. Airborne.
Nitro is proof that alternate sources of energy exist and we don’t know how to harness them. But I knew he was going to fit in when he handled our first crisis with an enthusiastic sense of adventure.
I had to drive to the Poconos in Pennsylvania to adopt him, and scenic as that trip is (it’s not), I was ready to be home.
But while getting gas at the Charleston Plaza on the Mass Pike, the pump clicked off prematurely. When I went to start the car, it was dead.
No amount of finessing the gas pedal or start button elicited even a flicker of life from the White Whoosh. Meanwhile, Nitro flickered joyfully in the back — what an exciting twist this was!
Except it was over 90 outside and would quickly get too hot.
So I pulled out my trusty AAA card and called in.
“Triple-A. Are you in a safe location?” I head the familiar opening line.
“I guess,” I replied. “But my car is beyond dead. Also, it’s 95 outside and I have a giant dog in my car, so soon I’ll be forced to take my dog into McDonalds here on the Pike, which may or may not be safe, depending on your view of dog hair in your McFlurry.
Physically, we are safe. Emotionally, I’m feeling something perhaps more like teetering on the brink.”
There was a pause. Had I overshared?
“I see, ma’am. I’m sorry to hear that. To clarify, did you say the Mass Pike?”
“Yes. A mere hour from home.”
“It’s just … we aren’t allowed to service cars on the Mass Pike. I’ll have to patch you through to the police, and they can assist you.”
I took a deep breath. “I’m sorry. What? You’re AAA. The national service I pay for ‘legendary 24/7 roadside assistance,’ right? You’re telling me you aren’t allowed to assist me on the MAIN THOROUGHFARE of this state?”
“No ma’am. Let me patch you through.”
Well, color me flabbergasted. Not much surprises me about the tedium of life any more: school shopping for sheet protectors, pharmacy voicemail prompts, unplowable driveways, dog excise taxes. I’m resigned.
But this? I am here to say unequivocally it doesn’t matter how rational the reasons are that AAA can’t fix cars on the Mass Pike. I acknowledge that an explanation must exist. I don’t care.
Also, Nitro doesn’t care. We call foul on even a whiff of something legendary.
My strong opinions aside, the state trooper was friendly, and I was all set and driving again in a reasonable amount of time (which is to say we didn’t melt, and no McFlurrys were bespeckled with hair).
Here in the early fall, it’s tricky getting used to our house minus our older daughter and dog of almost 12 years. But so far, getting Nitro has given us the jump-start [eye roll] we needed, and I’m happy to be back and telling you all about it on a regular basis.