Cold car calamities

The temperatures here in the Northland have plummeted. This development often induces an equal and opposite rise in the levels of domestic tensions.

This is not due to the pervasiveness of televised sporting events and/or the onset of cabin fever. It is because of the irreconcilable gender differences that manifest themselves during such times, especially when a car that has been forced to sleep outdoors during subzero weather refuses to start.

For instance, a typical cold-weather, car-related conversation might go something like this:

She: “Something’s wrong with the car.”

He: “What seems to be the problem?”

She: “It won’t go.”

He: “What do you mean by ‘it won’t go?’”

She: “Just what I said. It won’t go.”

He: “But what does that mean specifically? That it won’t crank? Or that it doesn’t start? Or that it starts but won’t move?”

She: “It means that it won’t go.”

He (trying to hide his rising frustration): “Let’s back up a little. Pretend that you’re in the car. You turn the key. What happens?”

She: “It doesn’t go.”

He: “I already know that. But does it even turn over? Does it make a sound something like rrr-rrr-rrr?”

She (now also thoroughly miffed): “How many times do I have to explain this to you? It won’t go.”

This stressful conversation can go on and on in that vein for hours, until a trained professional — either an expensive and skilled automobile mechanic or an expensive and skilled divorce attorney — intervenes.

It has become widely accepted that the sexes are equally coequal. Deep down, many of us guys think that this generally doesn’t hold up when it comes to automotive issues.

All my life, it was drilled into my head that females are the superior gender. Because I grew up in a household that included five sisters and one mom, I was constantly bombarded with such feminine snipes as “How is it that man can get to the moon, but he can’t get his dirty socks into the hamper?” and “Why can’t you operate a simple toilet seat?”

It therefore came as somewhat of a shock to realize that women, with numerous and notable exceptions, might know less about cars than we guys do.

Most guys attained their automotive acumen the hard way, with long hours of study and acres of skinned knuckles. How much easier my life would have been if I had put that much time and effort into trying to understand the labyrinthine intricacies of the female psyche?

It was thrilling when the mysteries of the internal combustion engine were first revealed to me when, as a teenager, I disassembled the engine of our John Deere “A” tractor. Peering behind the cast iron curtain, her intimate inner workings were at last unveiled. Her deepest secrets — those glistening pistons, her voluptuous valves, that shapely cam shaft — gleamed in the midday sun.

The only real conundrum was the tractor’s governor, a confusing conglomeration of weights and springs. But, after studying it for a little while, even the governor began to make sense.

Sadly, cars have evolved into machines so complex that they have become sentient. Their central nervous systems monitor and control everything that goes on. I wouldn’t be surprised if someday a car exclaimed to me, “Stop that, it’s disgusting. Don’t you have a Kleenex?”

No amount of study can decipher a modern car’s silicon brain with its teensy transistors and its puny processors, all connected by molecular ribbons of solder. Because of this, we guys have had to resort to faking it whenever the females in our lives experience car trouble.

We guys have learned how to open the hood and stare meaningfully at the bewildering array of gizmos that have been stuffed into the engine compartment. Rubbing our chins thoughtfully, we will make a pronouncement along the lines of, “It looks like the spleen shaft has worn through your widget housing. You also need a new Fresnel gasket.”

Looking up at you, her eyes brimming with wonder and admiration, your lady asks, “Can you fix it?”

“Maybe,” you reply, “but it’ll probably take a while. I’d better give you a ride to work.”

As soon as your lady is safely out of earshot, you feverishly dial the secret hotline to your trusty automotive mechanic.

“Hank?” you whisper into the phone, trying not to sound too needy or too panicked, “It’s me. There’s something wrong with her car again. Could you come over quickly and take a look at it?”

“I’m swamped,” Hank replies. “What seems to be the problem?”

Swallowing hard, you reply, “I’m not sure. It just won’t go.”

Jerry Nelson is a recovering dairy farmer from Volga, South Dakota. He and his wife, Julie, have two sons and live on the farm where Jerry’s great-grandfather homesteaded over 110 years ago. Feel free to email him at jerry.n@dairystar.com.