I don’t have anything against Indiana. It’s “The Gateway to the Midwest” according to their marketing campaign. At least it’s a descriptive phrase.
Going fast with the trucks on I-70 I found when I crossed
into Ohio their tagline is an imperative sentence. “Find it here.” Find what here? And what if I don’t care to find anything? I think states should go with the inviting
sentence “Welcome to _______” and skip the rest. Let the traveler define the territory they
enter in their own words.
I made it all the way to Zanesville, Ohio on the first day
of the road trip. I planned to stop in
Columbus, but when I reached the home of OSU and Ohio’s state capitol, I felt
good, so I went on. The Buick was
running great, aside from an odd growling noise coming from the front end. I first heard it at a gas station just past
Yellow Springs, Ohio when I was pulling up to the pump. My brother Darwin would know exactly what
that noise meant, but not me.
Zanesville is a town of 25,000 people located at the confluence of the Licking
and Muskingum rivers. My town, Ottawa,
stands at the confluence of the Fox and Illinois. I like how the word confluence sounds when
spoken and its meaning. Merging
together, making one. Zanesville has a
famous bridge in the shape of a Y that spans both rivers. Amelia Earhart said Zanesville, viewed from
above, was the most recognizable city in the America because of that
distinctive bridge.
I stayed in a hotel on a high bluff above those rivers
looking down on the town. After the
flatness of Indiana and western Ohio it was nice to be in rolling hills. I was close to West Virginia.
I resisted the steak burger and chocolate shake calling my
name from the Steak N’ Shake next to the hotel and made my way to the old downtown. It was full of well-built brick
buildings. I passed a towering but aging
brick church that reminded me of Open Table, my church back in downtown
Ottawa. From 1840 to the breakout of the
Civil War Zanesville was also a stop on the Underground Railroad, history we’re
just learning about in my town of Ottawa.
When I saw this building, I figured Zanesville had to be a
county capitol.
And it is. Just as
Ottawa is the capitol of LaSalle County, Illinois Zanesville is the capitol of
Muskingum County, Ohio. The similarities
kept piling up. Drive 500 miles and end
up in a town that makes you feel you’re still at home? Eerie.
Near that fine old courthouse was an independent Italian
restaurant I’d read about online, the Old Market House Inn. The hostess put me at a small table by a huge
unlit fireplace and a waitress brought me a roll and butter. When I picked up the knife to butter my bread
it was heavy. I have this unproven theory
that the weight of a restaurant’s silverware correlates to the price of the
food. When I checked the menu, my supposition
was again confirmed. No data to support
it though, only anecdotes.
I had chicken marsala over pasta and a glass of wine, pondered
the next day’s route, and headed back to the Buick. Before I started the Buick to go back up to
the hotel, I rolled the car windows to listen.
It growled when I turned the wheels but not when I drove straight down
the street. What the hell? I slept well.
Crazy dreams.
The buzz at the free breakfast the next morning was the breakdown
of the pancake machine. It was a fully
enclosed unit that promised to spit out beautifully browned pancakes in a
minute. It was locked up. Pushing any or all the buttons produced no
response. I knew that because the woman
in charge of breakfast pushed them over and over. A man in line suggested she unplug it and
plug it in again. My thoughts
exactly. But it was hard wired into a
wall panel.
As issues go in the world of hotel breakfasts, the broken pancake
machine was major. The breakfast lady took
her job seriously, slowly laying down slices of French toast so the tops and
bottoms made perfectly straight lines clear across the silver chafing dish. When they didn’t, she nudged them into place
with her tongs.
She was not at all happy about the pancake machine, or the
maintenance guy who, after a quick once over, told her there was nothing he
could do about it. I thought pancakes
plus French toast was overkill anyway, but she obviously considered pancakes irreplaceable. I had the fake eggs, a tasteless turkey
sausage patty, and a couple of cartons of milk.
I kept thinking about the Buick.
Before leaving my parking place at the hotel I turned on the
Buick’s engine and turned the steering wheel back and forth. It growled most when it was far right or
left, and not at all when the wheels were straight. Then it hit me. Power steering fluid. Darwin would be proud. I headed down the hill and over that famous Y
bridge looking for help.
I found it at an Advance Auto Parts store. Before going in, I popped the hood on the
Buick and looked for the power steering fluid reservoir. Dipsticks for the oil and transmission. Reservoir for brake fluid. But the deal for
power steering was nowhere to be found.
How could that be? You couldn’t
use brake fluid for both. The store was just
opening up. I approached the guy behind
the counter.
“I’m getting a growl from my front end that I think is low
power steering fluid, but I can’t find the reservoir.”
“What are you driving?”
“2006 Buick Lucerne.”
“That one is hard to find.
Let’s make sure you need fluid before you buy it. I’ll show you where it goes.”
He went right to it.
“See where it is?”
I took my sunglasses off and bent closer. It was under the alternator near the fire
well. Painted black, lid and all. Blended in like it was camouflaged.
“Who would think to look there.?”
“Yeah. Right? That’s why it gets so neglected. Whoever is changing your oil should be
checking this level, but they usually don’t.
I like Buicks, but the engineer that designed this deal should be fired.”
He took off the cap, wiped it and put it back, took it out
again.
“There’s your problem.
Dry or damned near it.”
“Does that do damage to the steering mechanism?”
“Not usually. Tells
you it may have a slow leak, but we sell a product that usually seals those up
pretty well. Let’s get you fixed up.”
I went with him to the shelves and bought two. Best to have one in reserve in case I needed
it.
As he rang me up, he made a general announcement to both me
and the young guy just coming in the door to start work.
“Killian here is going to get that skinny funnel we have and
fill up that reservoir for you.”
Killian looked at his boss.
If his facial expression was a poster, it would have said in big letters
”Oh yeah? Why not you?”
“It’s an old Buick Killian. Under the alternator. Make sure it gets filled. Let it settle and check it a couple times.”
Killian grabbed an odd shaped skinny funnel and headed back
out the door. I trailed behind with my
two bottles of power steering fluid. He
took off the cap to the reservoir and tried several ways to get the funnel
situated.
I said, “Could they have made it any harder you think?”
“I don’t think so. The
guy who thought this up wasn’t a mechanic I can tell you that. I’ll take that fluid now.”
He opened one bottle and took off the foil seal.
“I need you to get in the car, start it, and let it idle. We need to make sure this fluid gets down in
the lines and fills up.”
I got in the driver’s side and turned the key. I couldn’t see him because the hood blocked
my view. He spoke loudly over the engine
noise.
“OK sir, now turn the wheels all the way to the left, and
again all the way to the right.”
“Good. Do it a couple more times.”
When I turned the wheel the first time the groan could be
heard, but as I continued it faded away to nothing.
“OK, you’re full now.
Took almost the whole bottle.”
Thanks Killian. I
really appreciate your help. Can I pay
you something?”
“No. That’s what we’re
here for.”
My young mechanic back in Ottawa tells me the same thing.
I’ve been with this 2006 Buick Lucerne for a long time. It was the last car Jerry Trost ever sold me.
It needs some care, but I like extending
its life. It’s a great ride.
With the Buick back in shape, I got on Interstate 70 and headed
for Wheeling, West Virginia.
