It only took 34 years. To need a new front windshield for my car.
Blame four rocks smashing into my windshield. A trio in the past month alone. Could that be a record in America’s fourth largest city?
Years? Rocks? Days? All smacking into a single pane of auto glass?
It’s repaired now but I wonder how long this perfection will last. I considered not replacing the windshield at all. With my recent track record, was it worth it?
Consider another factor.
It’s been a spring, summer, and fall for endless car repairs. New tires. New brakes. New shocks. New struts. Restored air conditioning.
Traveling nearly three thousand miles across three states, plus mountain driving in summer heat, would impact anything and anyone. Add to that 60K miles acquired across seven years in Houston’s humidity atop her pothole‐laced freeways.
Besides, every car needs routine maintenance. Even more results from the adventures of a committed RoadBroad who must venture out weekly to gather her blog posts.
But this kind of cash makes for a hard swallow. These repairs exceed 16 months of car payments. What I completed four years ago.
Look for yourself.
See the jagged crack on the lower left? Swing your eyes to the far right. Spy the dot of pebbled glass? That’s the Hillcroft rock.
Out of range are the remaining pair of cracks. The worst split the windshield’s top quadrant like a boxer’s uppercut.
I felt confident of my do‐nothing approach. Then the heavy rains came.
Caught in a blinding downpour, the freeway’s dotted lines vanished before my eyes. I white‐knuckled the steering wheel and glued my eyes to the roadway, bird‐dogging for other blinded drivers. The windshield began to mock me. Its four cracks widened, expanding, before my terrified eyes.
It’s expensive to be a RoadBroad, I decided. New windshield got fitted two days later.
Meaning‐Me decided to reframe the issue.
Maybe now you’re free. To see clear and clean the road that lies before you.
Then my eyes whispered, reminding me of July’s summer laser surgery. A sudden onslaught racked them, too. It was a bout with spider vision, aka PVD. That’s short for Posterior Vitreous Detachment, a common, surprise malady afflicting the post‐60 crowd. A second whisper chimed.
New glass. New eyes. New view.
When I hear my inner voice(s) whisper like this, I listen. Even if it’s woo‐woo. Or simply mental. Who cares?
Now I can see.
I’m ready for the road.