Diesel Deprived

Once upon a time, it was the Friday of our first week with the horses at College Town...

Every day that we could, we would pick the horses up at the farm they were boarding, ride them at the College arena, then take them back when we had time between/after classes.

We had our system going pretty good, so I felt confident that Sister would be able to put the horses away and unhook the trailer by herself while I wrote a test. With this system, we'd be able to ride longer, but still leave for home as early as possible, since Sister didn't have any more classes that day. Now, the previous day, we had gone to Home Town because Sister was speaking at an event (she's kind of a big deal – she was the keynote). Anyway, going off the gas gauge, I figured we'd be able to make it to Half-Way Town on Friday on our way home and fuel up there. As we pulled into College Town Home, I was just saying, “Yep, I think we can fuel up in Half-Way Town tomorrow,” when the gas light came on and dinged. I heard it. I saw it. I rescinded my previous assumption. We would not be making it to Half-Way Town.

But I still wasn't worried about fueling up. We'd get it on the way out of town, I thought. No need to worry about it until then, I thought.

Of course, I was going off the possibly-inaccurate memories of my dad, who seemed, I'm sure I recall, to drive the truck for miles and miles after the fuel light went. We only had to go get the horses and take them back. A twelve-mile total, at the very most.

As I went in to my lab test, I had not a worry in the world for Sister. I had my phone on in case of an emergency, but I was definitely most concerned with identifying plant species, which is what I had to do. I did well on the test. I had only mixed up two plants, so I was feeling pretty good about myself, and excited to go home for the weekend (I generally start getting excited for the weekend on the previous weekend; it gets me through the accounting classes, but makes for a long slog through Thursday and Friday's half-days). As I walked on sunshine out to the truck, I had no suspicions. It was parked by the light post where we always parked, and a ginger head was visible in the passenger seat. Our bags were already in the truck and it was smooth sailing.

I opened the door. Still absorbed in my test success, I didn't immediately notice Sister. To be honest, I was too self absorbed, and just a touch annoyed that she wasn't asking me how my test went. As I was arranging my backpack and bags in the back seat, I found myself no longer able to contain it.

“Well that went alright!” I said, trying to be modest, so she'd ask just how I did. No response. “I only mixed up the Western Wheat Grass and the Quack Grass. Those two are identical! How are we even supposed to tell them apart?!” I wanted her to ask me about the slough grass, because I had nailed them and she had not.

But still no response. Charitable as I was feeling, I allowed that, perhaps, she was just excited to get home, so I hurried up and got behind the wheel. Once I had started the truck, I looked over at Sister. She looked frazzled, to be short about it. Her hair was all over the map, possibly resulting from some pulling on her part. Her face was red and shiny from the residue of sweat, and as my eyes widened and my brows went up, she interrupted her silent glare to inform me, “I have had. The. Worst. Half-hour.”

It was a close call, but I think she'd had just enough time to cool down to not be angry with me. She was, however, still in that derisive state where one shouts, then laughs, then cries, then laughs a little more. So she shouted first. About how she had run out of diesel. In an intersection (there are only two on that road with lights. She was in one). About how she'd been towed to a gas station because some nice man had made strange hand gestures and she had made noncommittal head-bobs in response. About how the truck still wouldn't start because it's a diesel and there was air in the lines. About how she'd had to phone Dad and tell him. About how stressful that conversation had been because they are so very similar especially when stressed (I filled in the blanks on that one). About how I had said the truck could make it all the way to Half-Way Town. That was where the shouting got the loudest and most mocking. Those sentences started with very outraged, “Youuuuu said!”s and ended with an angry Sister impersonating my voice without really trying to capture what I sounded like, because I definitely didn't say it like that.

Of course, all of this shouting was intermingled with a kind of relieved, but still miffed, chuckle, so I sat quietly and let it run its course. When the last mutterings of accusations had all but died out, I laughed sympathetically. That's like when a small child or puppy does something very stupid and hurts itself a little and you pick it up and kind of say “Oho-ooo, you poor thing!”

That is basically what I said. But after the groveling, I had to defend myself.

“Awww, that sucks (etcetera)”, “I'm sorry I wasn't there (etcetera)”, “Great job dealing with it though! You're awesome! (etcetera)”. And then, “Buuuuuut, I only said we could make it to Half-Way Town before the fuel light when on. You saw the fuel light, too...” And then I continued the grovelling. You gotta sandwich those sorts of things. Sugar coat them. Sister continues to blame me for the mishap, and I continue to direct the fault towards Dad, who always drove fore miles and miiiiiles after the light came on, I'm sure of it. Dad just kind of chuckles and smiles. And hits his forehead with his palm. It's called a face-palm. He also hits our foreheads with his palm. It makes a nice smacking sound that kind of sounds like “Du-h.” I guess he doesn't think we do this enough ourselves. Dad: “What were you thinking?” Me: “Well, you never fuel up as soon as the light goes on! We'd be leaving the yard sometimes when it went on and we'd still make the trip to check cows!” Dad: “Didn't you see the fuel light go on? Didn't it ding? What more do you want it to do for you?” Me: “Well, I don't know! It should have a light that says, 'No really, you're out of fuel!'”