- November 23, 2024
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For most men, fixing a flat tire is as simple as barbecuing a steak or cleaning a fish. The problem is, I don’t know how to do those things, either.
So, when my wife, Hailey, called from her minivan one day earlier this week and said, “Do you want to rescue me?” my palms started to sweat.
As I drove across town, I mumbled to myself: First, loosen the screws. Or are they called lug nuts? Bolts?
First, you take the jack out of the trunk.
First, you find some way to get the spare tire out.
At the side of the road, I found Hailey with our three children in the van. The provider is here to save the day, everyone. Sigh.
I put the long rod into the scissor jack, slid it behind the front passenger wheel under the van (I have done this once or twice, but never by myself, and it has been many years) and started twisting, but the rod kept falling out. I glanced over my shoulder at my wife. With her eyebrows, she said, Are you sure you know what you’re doing?
I was about to say that although I wasn’t the best at fixing flat tires, I could possibly recite a few lines of Shakespeare instead to entertain the children — when a teenager walked toward us on the sidewalk and asked if we needed any help.
It turns out that as he was driving by, he saw the van with its hazards on, turned on to a side road and walked across the street. Fortunately, he didn’t see me there, or he might have thought we had it all under control.
He took one look at my scissor jack and said, “Those things are a pain. I have a better one, and I just live down the road.”
I gave him a ride to his house and learned that his name is Blake Colson. He has lived in Flagler County since fourth grade and is now a junior at Matanzas High School.
He went into his garage and returned with what appeared to me (you can trust me on this) a professional hydraulic jack that weighed about 60 pounds. He said his father used to be a mechanic (which would also explain the 5-foot-tall tool box in the garage).
Blake swapped the tire in about six minutes flat. As he was getting his hands dirty, I thought about some of the negative comments that I’ve read in recent letters and online comments about the happenings in Palm Coast. Some people feel the city is taking a wrong turn, and while I know this flat tire story is just one incident and is completely unrelated to the economy or the government, I felt proud and safe to live here.
Blake has probably already forgotten about it, but he proved that an act of service like that can make a much larger impact in someone’s life than simply fixing a car.
And so, what could have been a bad day turned into a good one. I thanked him profusely, insisted he take some cash for his trouble and dropped him back off by his truck. I hope my sons grow up to be like him some day.
And as I drove home, I reviewed the whole process for future reference: First, you lift up the car with the jack. Then, you unscrew the lug nuts. No, then you pop off the hubcap … Oh, forget it. Next time I get a flat, I’ll just quote “Richard III”: “My kingdom for a horse!”
