Reflections on the Ninth Week of Winter – Washing the Car in Mud Season 

Clean Subaru

    Monday, I trudged out of the Meadville YMCA with a winter cap pulled over my wet hair, a damp swim bag hanging on one shoulder, and a heavy purse on the other. Shivering, I scanned the vehicles along South Main for my white Subaru. Two white cars. Neither mine.

    I often forget things―how many laps I’ve swum, if I locked the doors, whether I packed goggles―but not where I parked the Subaru. Did someone steal it?

    Don’t jump to conclusions. Look again.

    Scanning the vehicles parked with fronts toward the sidewalk a second time, my eyes halted on a dingy hatchback wearing mud from West Creek Road and slush from country highways. Like a goldfinch browning for winter, my Subaru had changed color.

    I pulled the keys from my purse, tossed my bags onto the floor by the passenger seat, and slipped behind the steering wheel. Inserting the key, I caught a glimpse of my right leg. A three inch wide strip of dirt streaked my black jeans from knee to boot.

    Sheesh.

    Time to wash the car.

    With mud season beginning, did I really want to wash the Subaru? If only I could roll it in a snowy field―slide the car several yards on each side to scrape off the dirt―like when I brush mud off my boots by scuffing them through snow.

    Unrealistic, silly.

    Maybe pelting the car with snowballs? 
    Get serious.

    Tuesday after lunch by the wood stove fire, I consulted my husband. “Do you think I could rub the Subaru with snow to get the dirt off?”

    Spence tipped the watering can to water the Boston fern hanging by the sliding glass door. “OhGodNo. Rubbing snow over the grime will scratch the paint.” He watered the plants on the table under the grow light. “Go to a car wash.”

    Why pay for a professional when the car would get muddy driving home? Besides― “The Subaru dealer said car washes scratch the finish.”

    Spence shrugged. “Wednesday and Thursday will be warm and rainy.” He set the watering can under the plant table. “Put on your raincoat. Soap the Subaru, and let the rain rinse the soap off.” He lifted his computer off the coffee table and sat on the sofa.

    “Oooooh.” Washing a car in the rain should have been on my bucket list! “But . . .”

    “But what?”

    “The Subaru will be in the shop Wednesday for a safety inspection. And Thursday I swim then help sew the raffle quilt for the Country Charms guild.”

    “You have time now.”

    I walked to the weather station on the kitchen wall. “It’s thirty-seven outside.” I didn’t add―and a layer of soggy mud tops our dirt road.

    “The sun makes the air feel warmer.” Spence set his computer on the coffee table. “I’ll carry the water buckets for you.” He slipped into his boots and walked out the door.

    The last time I’d washed a car in February, temperatures had risen to a record 71º. (See “Country Car Washing” February 26, 2017 blog.) I’d worn a turtleneck and pushed up the sleeves. Not today. Over my long underwear and turtleneck, I pulled a sweatshirt, winter jacket, and my late father-in-law’s windbreaker.

    Spence opened the front door. “I left two buckets on the porch. You need to clean them.” He eyed my outfit and flashed his curious smile. “Yell when you want me to carry the buckets. I’ll move the Subaru into the sunshine.”

    I carried the five gallon buckets―smelling of white pine and mud―to the wash tub in the bathroom. After removing dried needles, I scrubbed dirt from the bottoms. Not relishing the idea of dunking my hands into snow-melt cistern water, I filled one bucket a third full with hot water from the wash tub tap. Then I pulled on boots then tossed rags and the plastic bottle of cleaner into the empty bucket. Lugging a bucket in each hand, I walked down the driveway. Ice crunched under my boots.

    Spence met me at our parking pad beside the dirt road and pointed to the buckets. “I could have carried them.”

    I removed the rags and cleaner, set them on gravel, and handed the empty bucket to Spence. “Please fill this with cistern water.”

    He saluted and left with the bucket.

    I pushed the five layers of sleeves away from my wrist and poured cleaner, smelling like cherry pop, into the bucket. After swishing a rag in the soapy water, I rubbed the hood and giggled at the mist rising from the rag.

    Sunshine warmed my face.

    Hot water warmed my hands.

    But the sight of the damaged fog light on the passenger side didn’t warm my heart. The plastic bumper near the fog light had a jagged, one inch crack. Yikes! I’d expected dirt―not a trip to the body shop.

    Spence returned and set the bucket of cistern water in front of the fog light.

    “I don’t remember hitting anything,” I pointed to the light, “but the fog light broke, and the bumper cracked.”

    He crouched and ran his finger over the bulb. “The light isn’t broken. The casing is gone.”

    “Sometimes I tap your rototiller when I pull in the garage. I’ll check to see if I knocked the casing off there.”

    “I already checked.” He stood. “I saw the damaged light when I brought the car over. The casing isn’t in the garage.”

    “Maybe someone hit the Subaru while it was parked?” Not during lap swim. Vehicles face the parking meter and sidewalk on South Main. But I’d parked in a huge lot twice within a week. “Maybe on one of the days I shopped at Joann’s?”

    Spence shrugged. “Bad things happen.”

    Replacing a bumper costs a bundle. “Will the car pass inspection with a cracked bumper?”

    “After Matt inspects the Subaru, we’ll ask what he suggests.” Spence walked toward the garage.

    I dunked a rag in the cistern bucket and slopped rinse water over the hood. The water chilled my hand, but not to arthritis-aching cold. I took a deep breath and scrubbed. The ends of my five sleeves got soaked―insignificant compared to a frolic in the sunshine.

    Slosh-splash-slosh.

    A chickadee sang chick-a-dee-dee-dee and pecked at my peanut butter bacon suet (See “For the Birds” January 28, 2018 blog) in the feeder across the road.

    The tractor motor rumbled.

    At the bottom of the deck ramp, Spence parked his tractor with a full bucket of logs. He jumped off the tractor and pointed to the car. “Wow. What a difference.” Carrying an armful of logs, he walked up the ramp to the porch.

    An hour later, I ran into the house to grab the camera for a picture of my white Subaru before a passing pickup splashed mud.

    The next afternoon, Spence and I stood in the doorway of Matt’s office at Cummings Auto. Matt, looking like a wrestler with his muscles bulging under his t-shirt, smiled from his desk. “The Subaru passed inspection. The small crack in the bumper isn’t a problem.” He ran my VISA card through his credit machine. “If you want, I can order a new casing for the fog light.”

    “Yes. Order the casing.” I took a step to Matt’s desk and bent to sign his receipt. “If only we could put duck tape on the back of the crack.”

    Behind me, Spence chuckled.

    Matt, who never laughs at my suggestions or questions, said. “Actually they make a kind of duck tape that’s strong enough.” He leaned back, and his chair rolled two inches. “In the summer you can wash behind the bumper with alcohol then put on that tape. It’ll never come off.”

    Spence cleared his throat. “I thought super glue might work.”

    Matt didn’t roll his eyes. “That could work too.” He walked us out of the shop, knelt by the front of the Subaru, and traced his finger in the shape of a rectangle around the crack. “If neither of those work, I could bolt a piece of metal behind the bumper here.” He stood and dusted the knees of his slacks. “I’d just have to paint the heads of the bolts.”

    Okay. I’ll have a new casing within a week and a fixed crack in a few months. Now to keep the car clean.

    I drove the Subaru home at half my normal speed.

    Spence, who’d followed in his truck, jumped out of the cab. “Is something wrong? You were only going twenty miles per hour on West Creek Road.”

    “Nothing’s wrong. I didn’t want to splash mud on my clean car.”

    He laughed. “No matter how slowly you drive, the car will get dirty.”

    Of course he was right.

    Less than forty-eight hours after I took the photo of the white Subaru, I drove a mud splattered Subaru. With luck, hard rains will wash dirt off until the mud season ends.

Subaru with Fresh Mud and Missing Fog Light Casing