Just like the rest of the world, I've been locked up during the lockdown.  I know, some people binge-watch on Netflix at a time like this, or piece together insanely large jigsaw puzzles, or pray for schools to open up immediately.  Not me.  I stay glued to my computer, just like I do when the world is not hiding from a nasty little virus that originated in China.   I always have work to do on my computer.  And so, while I have no real distractions to pull me away from home, I have been writing and illustrating two more children's books while listening to countless videos on YouTube.  I've heard some people say on these videos that this is a good time to learn something new.  Take advantage of the time at home to expand your list of skills.  Pick up a guitar.  Find out how to fix a broken toilet.  Take up yoga.  I have no interest in any of that.  Now, if something breaks at my home, I pick up my telephone and call my brother.  You see, I already know how to fix anything.  I call my brother. 

I have really made the effort to keep my social distance and maintain my health.  So far, so good.  I have my mask and rubber gloves for those occasions when I sneak out to go shopping, during off-hours, of course.  And, that happens about once every other week.  So, that's how I found myself in the parking lot of a shopping center one morning.  Mask on, gloved up, and actually with one of those elusive jars of hand-sanitizer inside my car, just waiting for me.  I use it after every time I've been in a store.

My car is a Fiat 500, which I wrote about a few blogs ago.  It appears there are not many of them in Columbus, Ohio.  I have come to that conclusion because it gets comments everywhere I go, which is certainly a new experience for me.  Of course, it received more comments in the good old days - just a few weeks ago - when people took the time to possibly talk to someone at a gas station, in front of a coffee shop, or in a church parking lot.   (I live in Ohio.  We do that in Ohio.)  Yes, complete strangers commented on how small the car was.  They wanted to know what kind of mileage it had.  One man was even curious if he could tip it over all by himself. 

But, looking at the car from the outside doesn't give the observer the full truth as to just how tiny the car is on the inside.  The driver's seat is set as low as it possibly can be set.  I still have to scrunch about an inch so I can properly see out the windows.  And honestly, I don't even know why there is a back seat.  Nobody will ever sit in the back as long as I own the car.  I have my driver's seat moved back as far as possible so I have the necessary legroom to drive.  The passenger seat is moved back as well.  And, when those seats are in that position, there is no room for another body in the car.  Now, I've been in taxis in Africa that would certainly squeeze bodies in the back.  But, I don't know how it is humanly possible. 

In my previous car, I had some items that I always carried in the glove compartment of my SUV.  Just saying those three letters and you know there was extra space.  There was even a handy-dandy compartment between the two bucket seats.  All of that space is missing in my Fiat.  But, I still need all of those certain items that used to be in my glove compartment.  So, I purchased a little bag for them.  I placed it where your feet might go in the backseat if you ever tried to fit back there.  To give you an idea of how tiny that space is, I cannot just reach back and bring the bag up front.  No, I have to stop the car, pull the latch that makes the passenger seat fall forward and only then can I access the bag.  There is no other way to get to the bag.  Yep, the space is just that tiny.

Meanwhile, back at the shopping center parking lot . . .

I strolled my shopping cart up to the trunk and pushed the button to open the hood.  It didn't open.  Of course,  I tried it again and again.  It didn't open again and again.  For whatever reason, the hood was in no mood to open.  I stuffed my purchases in the passenger side of the front seat and headed home.  I couldn't call my brother as I normally would.  He was also on coronavirus lockdown.  Sadly, resisting the whole way, I headed to YouTube.  Like it or not, it was time to see how to open up the trunk of a Fiat 500 that didn't want to open.  It was time to learn that new skill that I really didn't want to learn.

It appears that this seems to be a common problem with my car model.  There were several suggestions on what to do.  The first video showed that if a screwdriver was applied and twisted in just the right location, it was possible to pop the trunk open.  Of course, that right location was inside the car, located in a space inside the trunk.  Now, you already know that my back seat area is not much of an area at all.  I pushed the passenger seat all the way forward and somehow crawled into the back seat where nobody my size was ever meant to crawl.  I kind of had an idea where I was supposed to put my screwdriver.  It was so much easier said than done.

On YouTube, the mechanic had an actual screwdriver.  Mine was a tiny attachment to a baby Swiss Army knife.  I don't think it was more than two inches long.  (I guess I need to add a real screwdriver to my emergency supplies in my trunk.)  Anyway, if I ever got that baby Swiss blade placed in the proper space inside the lock, I'll never know.  I couldn't see anything.  Yes, I had a flashlight in that bag in the back seat, but the lock was covered with carpet.  I couldn't see anything.  Everything was done by touch.  I've always suspected that my sense of touch wasn't fine enough to read Braille.  I know for certain that it isn't good enough to pop a lock with a screwdriver.

I went back to YouTube for further videos.

In another video, it showed a button that only needed to be pressed in order to pop the hood.  So, with that in mind, I squeezed once again into the back seat.  I had to flatten down one of the seats in order to better reach into the trunk in search of that elusive button.  I pushed.  I struggled and pushed some more.  By the time I gave up in frustration, I was fairly convinced that my model of Fiat didn't have that button.  And, I later learned I was right.

I went back to my computer one more time. 

One article I found said that there was a good chance some auto part would have to be replaced.  Hoping that was an article written by an auto service store, I continued my search.  Another person said that sometimes the mechanism gets stuck and just needs some oil.  That provided hope, but I still had to access the dang lock.  One more person wrote to say that they stopped their car, restarted it, and then the lock worked.  That was worth a try.

Just so you know, I don't usually start my car inside the garage when the door is down.  I guess if you do that too often or too long, you're eventually going to run out of opportunities to do it again.  But, it was cold and the car wasn't going to run very long.  I gave my car a start and then tried to lift the hood door.  Low and behold, it opened up about as fast as the ignition was turned off!  Much to my shock and delight, I fixed something without calling my brother.  That truly rarely happens.

I thought, "I really should spray some oil inside that lock to loosen things up."  I added WD40 to my mental "to do" shopping list.  Then, I realized that I actually had some in my emergency box for my car.  I bought it after I had the flat tire that I blogged about in December.  Yep, I was a boy scout and actually prepared.  I sprayed up that lock but good, and I haven't had a problem with it ever since.

Finally, I called up my brother to tell him he wasn't needed.  I fixed my car without him.  But, I promise, the next time the toilet breaks, I'm calling him again.  There is no need for YouTube.  He's already fixed this problem twice.  I have no desire to ever learn how to fix a leaky toilet.

I once blogged about the New Normal.  I happened to be strolling around a capital city in Europe while it was on lockdown for an imminent terrorist attack.  I know, not the best time and place to stroll.  As soon as I learned about what was going on, I caught a train back home, before the trains were shut down.  Yes, it is the New Normal that we have sadly all gotten used to in recent years.  Any day in the news, there may be a report of some kind of attack in cities like London, Brussels, Madrid, Paris, Berlin, Barcelona, Casablanca, Tel Aviv, Istanbul, Nairobi, New York City, Melbourne and Ouagadougou.  And, these are only places I've visited that have had attacks.  A complete list of terrorism sites is just too depressing to compile.

But, in recent weeks, it seems we've been hit with the New Abnormal.  And, now with the coronavirus in our midst, every day has new shocks with an ever growing list of "I can't believe this is actually happening" experiences.  Who knows what will be added to the list, but so many places have closed: schools, churches, salons, theaters, parks, restaurants and bars.  The Ohio primary elections were postponed until June and, for the life of me, I don't understand why the governor received any grief about that decision.  Personally for me, I bank at a little branch inside a grocery store.  Except, it is now closed.  I must go to other branches and bank through thick glass windows from the safety and social distance of my car.  I can't exercise in the little gym in my condo community.  And, there really isn't any demand for community murals when everyone everywhere is supposed to hide in their homes and not venture out.  Yep, I had a few murals in the works, but life for everyone in the world is on hold and that includes starving artists.

When things first started happening as the virus took root in Seattle, I was safely snuggled in my home in Ohio.  I heard reports of shopping madness in the Pacific Northwest, but I felt no need to rush out to the store and start hoarding.  I didn't see lines of grocery carts snaking down the sidewalk.  I didn't personally have to go to seven stores to find diapers.  It might have taken me a week to finally go shopping.  When I decided that maybe I should stock up on some things, I was amazed with what had happened in Ohio.  Unfortunately, the coronavirus brought out the worst in some people.  At that moment, there had been no diagnosed cases of the virus in the state, but that didn't stop the hoarders.  I'd never seen empty shelves in stores in the United States before.  Never.  So, this was my first "I can't believe this is actually happening" experience.  Row after row of shelves were depleted of potatoes, rice, pasta, pasta sauce, bleach, paper towels and toilet paper.  I went to three stores on that trip and found most of what I wanted.  I even found really nice disposable gloves, which I thought would be next to impossible to locate.  But, there is one thing that is just completely missing in Central Ohio.  You can't find any hand sanitizer to save your life.  And, with the current virus in our midst, it actually could save your life.  But, it's all been hoarded.  None.  Nada.  Zip.  It is not to be found.  Fortunately, soap and water work really well.  Remember, frequent handwashing and social distancing are two of the most important ways to protect yourself during this outbreak.

Now, I can understand why people want most of the items that have flown off the shelves.  I bought some of them as well.  But, one item mystifies me.  Yes, one item just leaves me completely puzzled.  I have no idea why people are hoarding toilet paper.  I've not heard any mention on any newscast about Montezuma's revenge, dysentery, diarrhea, loose stools, the runs, flux, backdoor trots, voodoo doo doo, the squirts, thunder from down under, the Aztec two-step, trouser chili, chocolate thunder, nasty faucet, poop soup, dirty dynamite, dishonorable discharges or Cleveland tap water.  Nobody associates the Corona virus with this problem.  This virus may give us cause to panic, but (butt?) there is no reason to worry about toilet paper unless everyone hoards it.  However, just to clear up this mystery, a friend of mine in Australia shared a theory about why so many people need so much toilet paper.  She suggested that every time a person sneezes, ten other people mess their pants.  Yes, if true, this absolutely explains the phenomenon.

When I lived in Africa, there were a lot more reasons for hoarding toilet paper.  However, it never happened!  Everyone at one point in time, and usually much more than one point, had some form of diarrhea.  And, in Africa, it was completely acceptable to discuss colors, smells and textures that I've never once heard people in the United States discuss.   Also in Africa, it was considered terribly rude to give someone anything with your left hand.  Because, as everyone knew, there was only one use for your left hand and it may or may not include toilet paper.

Of course, I was inspired to do a little research.  You do realize that many more people in the history of the planet have lived without toilet paper than with.  History tells us that it was first used in China in the sixth century and sheets were individually perfumed.  Yes, a gift from China that we can all appreciate!  And, over the centuries, those without any Charmin to squeeze have used wool, stones, sand (yuck!), grass, leaves, sea shells, husks, hay, moss, water, ferns, pebbles, broken pottery, corn cobs and even snow (no, thank you).  Now, if you find yourself without toilet paper in these days of empty shelves, you could doo doo as the Romans did did.  But, I don't think you'll want to to - even if you find the supplies at the grocery store.  They used sponges attached to sticks and then when finished, they plopped the sponges back in a pail of vinegar.  (I told you that you'd probably pass.)  So much for that old saying, "When in Rome . . . ."

Although you've most likely never heard of him, the man who should be considered a national hero, and possibly a world-class citizen, is Joseph Gayetty.  Our hero from Pennsylvania invented the modern toilet paper roll in 1857.   It was widely - and gratefully - used until the Northern Tissue Company made an improvement on the product in 1935.  Their toilet paper was splinter-free.  In the USA, more than seven billion of those splinter-free rolls are sold annually.  However, I have no doubts that that amount was sold just last week.

I'm fully convinced from my travels, that most people outside of the United States have never heard of Ohio.  Everyone knows about California, New York and Florida.  Ohio, as one of those states in the fly-over region, isn't known so much.  But, we made international news about a week ago.  The Ohio Department of Health Director declared that one percent of our population of eleven million, that is 100,000 people, were already exposed to the coronavirus.  Where did she get that statistic?  She made it up.  Perhaps she didn't have toilet paper and the smell of soiled vinegar affected her thinking?  She later had to take back those words, but the news was out and my friends overseas heard it.  And, it was heartwarming.

One friend from Africa wrote:
The outbreak of the coronavirus is really terrible. I can’t imagine the closure of activities and a lot of things that have to wait due to this circumstance.  I pray and hope that Jesus will mask you and hide you from this disease.  May the blood of Jesus be above your doors and this ugly disease pass over you and all connected to you.   I’m sending you blessings.

Another friend from Europe wrote:
My dear friend, how are you doing?  I pray that you are fine and shall be protected against any harm.  I have heard that the coronavirus is infecting thousands of people in Ohio.   I saw in the news that 1% of the population in Ohio is infected and I got very worried.  Please respond as soon as you read this.  Please be careful.  Don't make contacts a lot.  Let me know how true or false this news is that I've heard.  I wish you were living here.  That would be the only way not to worry about you.

So, there may be no available toilet paper, and the world panics as we face daily changes in our lives, but this virus also brings out the best in people.  After years of news stories about division and derangement, I'll take good news stories every chance I can.  I am thankful that the president asked for a national day of prayer, and I hope that everyone takes this moment to think, pray, meditate, sing or whatever you choose to do to bring us all together.  If ever there were a time to ask for divine help, this would be a good one.  And, I truly believe that the Good Lord gave me one very excellent guardian angel.  In Psalms 91, it says, "He will command his angels concerning you in all your ways.  On their hands they will bear you up, lest you strike your foot against a stone."

That verse said "angels".  Plural.  I've always felt that I may have worn out one angel.  Additional help may have been required as I've wandered the globe.  I mean, I've had malaria five times.  Need I say more?  Throughout my travels, I've survived multiple car, truck and motorcycle accidents.  I've wandered the globe with a very expensive camera to places I probably shouldn't have wandered.  Because I never look like a local person, I most likely have had a huge target on my back.   But, I've never been mugged - although there have been rogues with knives in Abidjan.  (Another miracle!)  My home in Belgium was been broken into four times - once when I was in it.  I've fallen terribly many times, especially in Fiji, and never broken a bone.  And, I'm quite sure there are so many other times when I've been saved from disaster that I'm not even aware about, because I have been so well protected.  Yes, I'm hopeful that my protection continues and this virus never crosses my doorstep.  But, if it does, I'm quite possibly overdue.

Often, when things like this happen, it's difficult to know what an individual can do to make a real difference.  But there are heroes in our midst.   In my mind, they are the people who continue to work and face the public because that's just the kind of people they are.  Doctors, nurses, hospital support staff, police, firemen, emergency crews, first responders, grocery store employees, attendants at care facilities, truck drivers, and sanitation workers all rate high on my hero list.  The world needs more people like them, and I pray they get some of the protective blessings that my friend in Africa mentioned.

Now, I'm the first to tell you that I meet wonderful people when I paint my murals.  But, in the past week, I was warmly impressed by some of my painters around the globe.  They came from opposite corners of the planet, but it just demonstrates the kind of people I meet wherever I paint my murals.

My friends in Brazil posted this on Facebook for the people in their community:
I live in your neighborhood. If you are over 60 years old or are part of the risk group, I will go to the supermarkets or pharmacies to buy supplies for you so that you may stay home.  I will help with any of your needs and I will do this for free.  Everything will pass, this is the time to help each other.

Another muralist in Albania shares a similar good heart:
We need to help each other during this time.  If you are a student who needs to eat a meal, but you can't afford this for any reason, I want to help you.  Just let me know and I will be there.

Humor also helps in all kinds of situations, including global pandemics.  But, you may also need to travel a little and know your Mexican beers.  Advice on Facebook isn't always the best.  There is, after all, a lot of stupid in the world and it frequently finds its way to social media.   But a couple of my friends had great advice that is worth repeating.  Since it appears that March and April are going to be cancelled for all practical purposes, the next holiday that we'll have to celebrate is Cinco de Mayo.  Of course, it'll be sponsored by Corona.  And, finally, this is the first time in history that we can save the human race by staying home, lying in front of the television, and doing nothing.  Let's not screw this up.

1.  Wash your hands often.  Use soap and water or an alcohol-based hand sanitizer for 20 seconds.
2.  Cover your nose and your mouth with a disposable tissue or cough into your elbow.
3.  Your social distance is at least six feet from other people because you can't know who is contagious.
4.  Do not touch your nose, eyes or mouth.
5.  Stay at home if you can. 

Prior to my trip to Jamaica, I suspected that at least every other person on the island was a Rastafarian with dreadlocks.  I was fairly sure the smell of marijuana lingered around every street corner.  And, if you were at a tourist destination, there was no doubt you were bound to be pestered to buy souvenirs from peddlers or meet someone who wanted to braid your hair. 

It didn't take long for me to see just how little I knew about this jewel of the Caribbean.  You do see dreadlocks.  If you stand in any public location, you'll see those locks, but most people have short hair.  I personally felt that it was too hot to sport any other style.  And, as I observed people on the street corner, I never smelled a whiff of marijuana.  But, honestly, I don't know what it smells like.  So, I can't say if I smelled it or not.  I do know that marijuana is legal in Jamaica.  However, I also know that the closest friend that I met in my muraling experience never touched the stuff. 

And then, there was the tourist experience.  I don't have enough hair to worry about braids.  But, there was one souvenir shop near my hotel.  I was grateful that I didn't stay at a tropical beach resort location.  No, I stayed in Jamaica's answer to Manhattan, a new and modern part of the capital city.  Not many tourists lingered in New Kingston when there were beaches and rum cocktails awaiting at Montego Bay and Ocho Rios.  Still, there was this one souvenir shop in the vicinity where I walked, and I learned to walk on the other side of the street.  I didn't give anyone there any eye contact.  I didn't look at any of the souvenirs.  I refused to walk into the shop.  And, I wasn't about to give one Jamaican dollar to the aggressive shop vendors who called out to me.  That kind of pestering never works on me.

During my free time in New Kingston, I ventured out of my air-conditioned hotel to see the area and swelter in sweat.  It didn't take long for me to wilt.  It's kind of my tropical look and I have to live with it.  But, on my wanderings, I often saw a Rasta man who sat by his bicycle.  He had necklaces for sale.  They really didn't interest me.  But, just to be on the safe side, I walked on by and didn't make any eye contact with him either.  I didn't necessarily feel the need to cross the street to avoid the guy.   However, I seriously wasn't interested in buying anything.

Well, after a week of this, the Rasta man finally stopped me to ask, "Why do you go to the souvenir shop but never stop and see what I have to sell?"  I made it clear to him that I never set foot in that souvenir shop.  And, I told him why.  But, the conversation forced me to take a look at some necklaces.  They were all his own unique creations and were certainly more interesting than anything that dreaded souvenir shop could possibly offer.

Now, this Rasta man was more interesting than I ever could have imagined.  He lived in the United States at one point in his life and he was obsessed with American presidents.  I'm quite convinced that he knew more about the presidents than I ever did - or anyone I'd ever come across in the States.  On multiple occasions, I had to go to the Internet to see if he had the facts correct.  He almost always did.  So, every conversation was entertaining and educational.

The one good thing about that avoided souvenir shop was that it was always there.  If I wanted to go to that shop, I knew where to find it.  The Rasta guy wasn't always so easy to find.  I'd seen him in several locations in my neighborhood as I took my walks.  When I finally decided that I should buy a necklace from him, he wasn't so easy to find.  I went to the souvenir shop and asked about him.  They had not seen him.  They didn't know his name.  He was only known as "Rasta Man".  But, I was told that he sold weed.  "Do you want weed?  I have some," the merchant offered.  It gave me another reason to walk on by and never make eye contact again.  (Not only did I not want weed - ever -  but I couldn't imagine why anyone would want to risk doing that in a foreign country.  No, thank you.

I did take comfort in the fact that if my Rasta man actually sold drugs, he knew not to offer them to me.

Eventually, I found Rasta Man parked by his bike, not far from my hotel.  And, I purchased one of his necklaces.  More important to me, I took his photo, which was one of my better souvenirs from Jamaica.  And, on the last time that I saw him, I also learned his name.  Donovan.

I recently wrote about how I was not even close to Boy Scout material when it came to power outages in my life.  Always prepared?  Not hardly.  Close to prepared?  Not that either.  After what I went through, you would think - at the very least - I would own some fancy, schmancy flashlight by now.  Nope.  It's still on the "to do" or "to buy" list.  And, sadly, it'll still probably be on that list when the next power outage comes around.

I'm really not much better prepared for car problems.  Flat tires were never a problem when I drove around in Africa.  The roads were so hard on tires in Zambia.  I had lots of flat tires.  But, it didn't matter how remote the location, every single time it happened, a young man showed up out of nowhere and offered to change the tire.  How did these young men know how to do that when odds were close to one hundred percent that none of them owned a car?  It's one of life's African mysteries to me.  I don't have the answer to that riddle.  But, they knew.  And, it was the best investment of a few dollars tip that I've ever had in my life.

Fortunately, roads are better in Ohio.  I've never had a blowout from driving over pot holes in Buckeye Nation.  But, on a couple of occasions, I've discovered flat tires when I approached my parked P.T. Cruiser.  They have all been temporarily fixed by those handy, dandy canned tire inflators.  God bless whoever invented those wonderful little cans of liquefied propellant and tire sealant.  They've fixed the problem long enough to get me to a repair shop.  (Funny thing though, they've never once fixed the flat.  It always seems to require a new tire.)  Anyway, I'm not completely hopeless in the Boy Scout department.  I always carry a can of Fix-a-Flat in my car.

Another reason I'm very glad not to have had serious flat tires in the past few years is because I never knew how to access the spare tire in my P.T. Cruiser.  I knew it was located under the car, but that's all I knew.  My first step with a ruined tire would be to call a repair service.  And, fortunately, that never happened.  But, in recent weeks, I've changed to a Fiat 500.  So, at the car lot, one of the questions I knew to ask about was how to access that dang tire.  You have to open the trunk, unscrew a bolt inside the car that lowers the tire underneath.  I never would have figured that out on my own.  

This Fiat is really a baby sized car when compared to my previous one.  I'm a little shocked by the lack of storage space in it.  But, I have a box of goodies for emergencies that takes up about a third of the trunk space.  It has the usual assortment of treasures: jumper cables, a four-way cross wrench (I had to look up the name for this tool), first aid kit, flashlight, collapsible orange cone, pocket knife and, of course, a can of Fix-a-Flat.  I felt moderately prepared.  Maybe even a little more than moderately.

The day after I bought the car, I headed off to that state up north that no good Buckeye even likes to utter.  That's a good way to test and see if you bought a lemon or not.  Take it on a seven hour ride to rural, rural *ichigan.  Now, it was not all that cold in Ohio when I departed.  I wore a long-sleeve T-shirt and a long-sleeve shirt.  It was warm enough for the length of time it took to fill the car with gas.  But, it never occurred to me that I was driving into a winter wonderland.  Seriously?  Who would want to live in that kind of cold with that kind of snow?  One day it snowed seven inches!  No wonder wolverines have such nasty temperaments!

While up north, my sister and I planned to visit some cousins.  We hopped into my baby car and headed to the gas station.  That's when I realized I didn't have my wallet.  Always prepared?  I told you that wasn't me.  My sister took over the wheel and off we headed.  When we turned on to a new road, the ride was suddenly bumpy.  We weren't sure if it was the road or the car.  Then, a new light showed up on the dashboard that my older car never had.  It said that the right front tire needed an air pressure check.  Well, air pressure wasn't the problem.  The car needed a new tire.  The old one was totally shredded with several gaping holes.  I'm really not sure what happened.

This might have been a good time to call for roadside assistance.  However, ever the unprepared Boy Scout, that insurance card was in my wallet which wasn't with me.  Yeah, I'm a lot closer to a Beagle Scout.

It was this day and this moment when those seven inches of snow fell.  It was a freezing mess outside.  And, it was also when I realized some of the things you need in order to be prepared for car problems in a winter wonderland.  Seriously, you need a pull-over hat.  A stylish fedora just didn't cut it.  You also need some heavy-duty gloves.  I didn't have any, either stylish or any kind of duty.  My shoes were my usual red tennis shoes.   In no time at all, they were completely soaked.  No, it never once occurred to me to bring sturdy warm shoes for potential problems up north.  And, there were a few mechanical issues that I was about to realize as well.

Okay, I knew how to access the spare tire.  I opened the trunk and unscrewed the bolt.  Amid the flutter of snow, I read the owner's manual.  It said to lower the tire and unscrew a special bolt that was specially made to be turned by human hands.  Well, it might have been made that way, but it wasn't turning.  It obviously hadn't been turned in a long time and it wasn't going to budge without a wrench.  Wrench?  Who carries one of those?  Who even owns one of those?  That wasn't in my car (or home) so I certainly wasn't prepared for it.  So, my sister put up the orange cone and we crawled back into the warmth of my car. 

My brother-in-law got the call and was on the way.  In the meantime, a good Samaritan (er, Michigander) stopped by.  He took a look at the tire and agreed we needed a wrench.  But, this guy traveled with one.  Who does that?  (I now do.)  The joint that held the tire under the car needed to be folded in half and slid through the hole in the tire rim.  It wasn't about to fold.  We hammered it a few times with the wrench, but it was decided we probably needed to spray some WD-40 on that sucker.  Well, guess what "Samarigander" had in his truck?  Guess what is now on my shopping list?  And, it worked!

By this time, my brother-in-law showed up and took over the rescue.  The "Samarigander" went on his merry way never hearing one word about the Ohio State Buckeyes or how they shellacked those Wolverines 56 - 27 this past football season.  Nope, not a word.  My sister agreed it was a good time to keep silent on that subject.  This man only received sincere gratitude and repeated thanks. 

As my brother-in-law knelt down in mud and slush, he said, "You two can go on in my truck, and I'll take care of this problem."  But, you really can't leave someone out in blizzard cold when they are helping you.  Instead, I unsuccessfully tried to block the wind and swirling flakes from his path.  It might not have helped one lick, but at least I was outside suffering at his side until the tire was replaced and he could go on his merry way to find new ones.

Obviously, I wasn't prepared for a winter wonderland.  Seriously, I learned a thing or two from this experience.  But I am a little curious why my sister and her husband were not as prepared as they could have been.  After all, they call this "wonderland" home.  When my brother-in-law replaced the tire, he wore neither gloves nor pull-over hat.  He knew full well what he was getting himself into.  That's a mystery.  And, my sister had no hat and the wrong shoes as well.  Her hair, which had been curled and looked her best, was damp, stringy and miserable by the time we crawled into that truck for warmth.  Our cousins had to accept us "as is" when we arrived at their doorstep.  But, seriously, isn't that how you want family to accept you any time of the year, winter wonderland or not?