YESTERDAY JOHN took my dad’s 1976 Ford pick-up to pick up sod.  Sounds easy enough.  Right?

Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring.

I never can find my cell phone.  By the time I find it, I’ve missed the call.  But I quickly returned it.

John:  I’ve had a flat on the truck.  I took the spare out of the truck because I thought the pallet of sod would take up all the room.  Can you come and get me?  I’ve got to come to the house, load up the spare, and come back out here.  I don’t want to call Triple A until I have the spare.  It’s the right rear tire. And is it ever flat.  And I’ve got a load of sod on the truck.

Me:  Sure.  I’ll change clothes and be right there.  Where are you?

John:  Go to Dickson and turn north on 177.  I’m north of the Washita Bridge.

Me:  I could save you some time if I brought the spare.

John: Yeah, but I don’t know if you can lift it.  It’s heavy.  Why don’t you just leave it alone.  I’ll get it.  I don’t want you to hurt your back.

Me:  Okay, well, I’ll see if I can lift it and get it in the suburban or the car.  Whichever.  But I’ll be right there.

I rolled the tire to the back of the suburban and tried to lift it in.  It was so heavy that it jumped back at me in an attempt to sabotage all my efforts.  I got it.  The back of the suburban was too high.  I opened the trunk of the Avalon and the same confrontation with the tire occurred.  Damn.  The tire probably weighed 50 pounds.  I had carefully laid an old rug in the trunk to protect it from tire dirt.  I vaguely noticed that the tire didn’t seem to have much air in it as it  didn’t bounce.  After two back breaking efforts, I managed to get the tire in the trunk, but it scooted the rug forward and none of the tire rested on the rug.

For some stupid reason known only to the god of ha-ha, I headed north to Springer, not east to Dickson.  After about thirty minutes I noticed that I had not seen a sign for Highway 177.

I called John:  Now, where are you?  I’ve not seen Hwy.177.  I’ve passed Hwy 53 that goes to the airpark.  I’m way north about to get on I-35 and I don’t see that Hwy 177.

John:  You have gone to Springer.  I told you Dickson.

Me:  Damn.  You sure did.  Don’t know why I got Springer in my head.  I’ll turn around and be there as soon as I can.  I got the spare in the Avalon.

At least an hour and a half after I had gotten the first call from John, I found him sitting on the dirt beside the pick-up.  It was loaded with sod that was leaning way too far to the right, in the direction of the flat tire.  A tractor with a fork lift sat behind the pick-up with its forks attempting to hold the weight of the sod off the truck bed so it can be jacked up.

About thirty minutes later Triple A showed up and popped the spare out of the Avalon as if it weighed about as much as a Lifesaver (Note the irony of my simile here).

Triple A:  This tar is flat.

I jumped right on that fascinating fact, thinking he was referring to the flat tire on the truck, not the spare.

Me:  Tell me.  That thing is sure-dee flat.  I maliciously beady eyed the truck sitting on the flat.

Triple A:  Naw, I mean this here spare is flat.  It ain’t gonna hold no aher neither.  Them’s cracks in it.  It’s a shame.  Look at the tread on it.  Looks like it ain’t never been on the ground neither.

Me: Damn. (Seems to be my word choice for the day.)

Triple A:  Ya’ll go buy a tar.  When ya git back out here, call me an I’ll come change hit.

An hour and a half later we sat in the Avalon beside the pick-up.

Me:  I can’t believe we had to pay two bucks to get them to take the old tire.

John: Yeah, well, they can’t dump those old tires anymore.  They have to pay to have them hauled off.  We’ve got to find someone at the sod place to come and get this tractor.  I think the whole load of sod may turn over if he isn’t careful when he moves the tractor.

Me:  Good Lord.

We drove back to the sod place to find that everyone had gone to lunch.

Me: Damn.

But luckily by the time we got back to the tractor and the pick-up, someone had shown up and was driving the tractor away.  The sod rested at a dangerous slant.  I followed John home at 35 miles an hour, warning him via cell phone not to swerve or stop suddenly as the left rear tire was almost flat.

John: I think I could have gotten them to deliver this sod.

Me: Damn.