my 1993 Mercury Villager mini-van caught fire last night while driving home the members of Each One (son's band). Fortunately it was discovered at the last stop and a neighbor was present with a fire extinquisher. The fire was underneath it in the vicinity of the exhaust system.
This could not have happened at a worse time--with my husband only working three day weeks I have no idea where to go from here.
Okay whining over. For now.
Later on in the day . . .
The husband took the whole thing better than I expected him to. He's currently out with the tow truck driver picking up the van and dropping it off at the mechanic's shop. We went out this morning and it started right up, the oil was normal, the lights worked, the heater worked, etc.
"I think we could drive it--" he started to say
"Are you nuts? The entire bottom side of this thing was engulfed in flames last night!" I said.
"But . . ."
"But nothing! Gary--this isn't just a little knock in the engine--this is flames! You know--that could have exploded and hurt somebody kind of dangerous?"
I realized he was grinning at that point. He loves to set me up to go off like that. He thinks it's cute.
The mechanic will look at it tomorrow. The lady who runs the front office wondered if it could have just been a lose fuel line. I'm no mechanic, but . . . wouldn't I have noticed a sharp drop in fuel levels?
Even later than that . . .
My husband followed the tow truck driver to the mechanic's. While there--in the parking lot at the mechanic's shop--the bronco promptly died and refused all resuscitation attempts.
I haven't read this part of the plot before--Is this where God jumps out from behind a tree with the keys to a new car? Or is this the part where he smiles sagely and assures me that he has not yet begun to test my faith?