Aunt Janet and I got a good start this morning, about 9, on our trip to Manitowoc. About 10:15 we stopped at Bywater Lane, Fox Point, for a visit, and a cup of coffee. Then on our way—headed for a a very tasty lunch at Maretti’s Deli, near St. Vinny’s in Manitowoc. Along the route plenty of lively conversation, although we did listen to two podcasts: Wait, Wait, Don’t Tell Me, and RadioLab.

So, with Aunt Janet back home, I turn and head to Whitewater. I decide to wander, knowing that Sue will be spending the night at the convent in Aurora, not exactly a novitiate—just crashing at Collette’s place while in town working on relocating Jayne. Larking about, I get off the highway at Lake Church and dogleg my way down the lakeshore, staying as close to the water as possible, to and through Port Washington.

Back on the interstate, picking up speed to beat the rush through Milwaukee, I notice a low tire pressure warning on my right front wheel—33 pounds and dropping—within seconds, 24, 16, 9, 3, 2, and 0. I make it to the narrow shoulder in heavy, thundering traffic and ask Pax if he has any ideas, but al he’s thinking about are the hock waves shaking the vehicle as transports roar past. I fish through the glove box to find the number of roadside assistance that was part of my purchase package.

The folks on the other end, somewhere in Georgia are very pleasant and say help will be on the way promptly…with an estimated wait time of one hour and fifteen minutes. That’s when I turn to Siri. “Siri,” I say, “call the closest police station.” And she does, instantly. Fifteen minutes later a police officer (from Mequon) pulls up behind me, lights flashing, and says he is here to help. And he does too. Not only does he give me the confidence to actually get out of the truck without being turned into bug-splatter, he serves as page turner for my owner’s manual. Because of liability issues he can’t really provide any physical help, but it is very windy so by holding the manual he really helps move the project along.

(I interrupt here to suggest: whenever you buy a new car, and well before you go on any long drives, park the vehicle in the driveway and PRACTICE changing a tire.)

So, with the officer holding the manual and pointing out various illustrations, I figure out how to remove the jack and tools from storage, lower the spare from its nest under the bed, disconnect the unbelievably heavy wheel from its suspension wire, drag the gigantic thing out from under the truck, and find the spot on the axle that doesn’t mind being jacked up. It’s the right, rear tire, not the front as indicated by my tire pressure system.

Then I swing into action. (If I remember correctly, way back in the distant past I had all my eighth grade computer science students build a Hypercard stack that showed, step-by-step (with illustrations) how to change a tire.

This officer has to be impressed seeing an old, one-armed paper hanger proceed with such fluid efficiency. He does help me lift the big old wheel onto the bed of the truck, and I’m thankful for that because otherwise it would have been left in the weeds.

Finally, back on the road, for a mile or two when traffic comes to an abrupt halt, and I sit still for half an hour, forcibly keeping myself in calm and patient, as I have been instructed. When an exit inches into reachability I peel off I and wander slowly through Wauwatosa, or wherever.

When “civilization” finally recedes in the background I notice, looking up, a dirty yellow sky. “This doesn’t look good,” I say to Pax. (Of course, he has earlier come to the same conclusion.) Then we hit violent winds and spitting rain. The phone rings and it’s the guy with the tow truck telling me he is on his way and it won’t be long. But, by now, we know where we are, the spare tire seems to be holding up, and we roll into Whitewater well before the University carillon starts chiming seven p.m.