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Our Community Journal: “Come with me, little lady.”

The shop owner motioned toward the back of the shop.

Mechanic’s Shop Painting

Mechanic’s Shop by Ruth Shively

Sometimes our minds bring a memory forward. Maybe this one came because I’m really tired of all the division and polarity in our country. Maybe it’s because at middle age, certain events that take place when you are young suddenly reemerge, asking to be understood in a new way. Either way, this memory from some 30 years ago has pushed itself to the front of my mind. I was 18 and traveling from suburban Maryland to spend spring break in Florida with my boyfriend. We were traveling in my old, wood-paneled station wagon—even the memory of that ’70s era car makes me laugh. And when that car broke down in the middle of the night in rural Georgia, we were lucky to find a gas station attendant willing to jump-start us. (I did point out that I had a AAA card, which got a laugh from the attendant, and a snarky “Not this far south, you don’t.”) He told us not to stop until we reached a repair shop, and so we didn’t, arriving at a small, rural shop in the early morning hours. It was my car, so I spoke with the husky-voiced owner of the shop. I was petite—at that age I probably weighed under 100 pound …

Kim Flyr is a mental health counselor, yoga teacher, freelance writer, and avid Spirituality & Health reader living in Maryland.

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