Come with me my friends in my super fantastic time machine as we journey back in time to the banner year of 2008. A "banner year" so called because it finds me and my Papa at the Ford dealership looking at a brand new Ford truck with all the options. Papa has heard of great deals on vehicles and has decided that before he dies, by golly, he's going to have a new truck. Being the farmer type, he has lived in a most frugal way, pulling the belt tight and getting by, but now, full of years, for once in his life, he's going to drive something no one else has owned before.
We make the deal and in less time than it takes to tell, we're driving home in a brand new black Ford pick-up. Even though Papa is 89 at the time with a body worn by years of heavy lifting and hard work under the Florida sun, his lead foot does not fail and we fly home. He is happy and proud and I am happy and proud for him.
Time passes. Over the years, Papa drives the truck and because of failing eyesight and restricted body movement, he runs into trees, into ditches, into one of the canals that flow through his property, (that was a barrel of monkeys pulling said truck back out again with the tractor). Finally, after backing into another car in the McDonalds parking lot, he decides his driving days are over.
The truck sits under an oaks tree in the front yard and slowly turns green.
As of June 11th, 2013, the truck has 4,781 miles on the clock. My brothers and I are talking about this yesterday and I ask, "has anyone ever changed the oil on Papa's truck?" Everyone points at everyone else chanting "I thought you did it."
Oh.
This means that in the five years it's taken to rack up the 4,781 miles, this truck has been running on the original factory fill.
Suddenly, changing the oil in Papa's truck becomes an emergency as in "we have to do this right now!!!" Like doctors working in an ER, we set to work in desperation, almost as though the truck is going to explode any minute from such a neglectful oversight, (either that, or deep in our hearts we believed Papa would pull off his belt and beat all of us if he ever found out what we had done). I grab a wrench, a drain pan and some cardboard and slide underneath the truck. I pull the drain plug and am rewarded with a steady flow of thick black oil. When it stops flowing, I replace the plug and shout, "GO!" and my brothers who have raided the family farm oil stash, proceed to pour in six quarts of fresh oil. It takes all of five minutes. DONE!
That's when we notice that in our haste to grab oil, we hadn't taken the time to look at the labels and so mixed different weights of oil. Four quarts of 5W30 are now mixed with two quarts of 20W50 in a motor that calls for 5W20.
What should we do? We circle up like a football team fighting for the longest yard and decide that probably the weights would "balance" out once they mixed with each other. "Who knows," says one brother, "we might end up with something like a 10W35." Beer helps us make this decision.
"Someone should drive it" we reason, "to see what will happen." We cast lots and the lot falls to me. "You go ask Papa if you can drive his truck to your house. Tell him you need to borrow it." I go, I ask, he says "not a problem, just take care of it." I feel waves of shame wash over me.
The truck is now sitting in my yard. It looks so sad out there, as though it's missing it's spot under the oak tree. I parked it well away from the house just in case the motor starts to glow with an unearthly light.
We make the deal and in less time than it takes to tell, we're driving home in a brand new black Ford pick-up. Even though Papa is 89 at the time with a body worn by years of heavy lifting and hard work under the Florida sun, his lead foot does not fail and we fly home. He is happy and proud and I am happy and proud for him.
Time passes. Over the years, Papa drives the truck and because of failing eyesight and restricted body movement, he runs into trees, into ditches, into one of the canals that flow through his property, (that was a barrel of monkeys pulling said truck back out again with the tractor). Finally, after backing into another car in the McDonalds parking lot, he decides his driving days are over.
The truck sits under an oaks tree in the front yard and slowly turns green.
As of June 11th, 2013, the truck has 4,781 miles on the clock. My brothers and I are talking about this yesterday and I ask, "has anyone ever changed the oil on Papa's truck?" Everyone points at everyone else chanting "I thought you did it."
Oh.
This means that in the five years it's taken to rack up the 4,781 miles, this truck has been running on the original factory fill.
Suddenly, changing the oil in Papa's truck becomes an emergency as in "we have to do this right now!!!" Like doctors working in an ER, we set to work in desperation, almost as though the truck is going to explode any minute from such a neglectful oversight, (either that, or deep in our hearts we believed Papa would pull off his belt and beat all of us if he ever found out what we had done). I grab a wrench, a drain pan and some cardboard and slide underneath the truck. I pull the drain plug and am rewarded with a steady flow of thick black oil. When it stops flowing, I replace the plug and shout, "GO!" and my brothers who have raided the family farm oil stash, proceed to pour in six quarts of fresh oil. It takes all of five minutes. DONE!
That's when we notice that in our haste to grab oil, we hadn't taken the time to look at the labels and so mixed different weights of oil. Four quarts of 5W30 are now mixed with two quarts of 20W50 in a motor that calls for 5W20.
What should we do? We circle up like a football team fighting for the longest yard and decide that probably the weights would "balance" out once they mixed with each other. "Who knows," says one brother, "we might end up with something like a 10W35." Beer helps us make this decision.
"Someone should drive it" we reason, "to see what will happen." We cast lots and the lot falls to me. "You go ask Papa if you can drive his truck to your house. Tell him you need to borrow it." I go, I ask, he says "not a problem, just take care of it." I feel waves of shame wash over me.
The truck is now sitting in my yard. It looks so sad out there, as though it's missing it's spot under the oak tree. I parked it well away from the house just in case the motor starts to glow with an unearthly light.
