First, a prayer of thanks.  Maybe God watches over his little teachers, after all.  Maybe all those years of dedication meant something to the Being upstairs.  I was dedicated, you know.  That's probably why I always got into so much trouble.  Trying to teach the kids, to make them better people, to encourage a broader mind and a sense of taste--that's what I always tried to do.  The kids always came first, and the stupid, bureaucratic demands of moronic principals who rose to the top by anal osculation always came last.  They hated me, because I never followed their asinine rules and my kids always did better on the standardized tests than the classes of the boot polishers.  Well, that's in the past.  I was talking about the hand of God on the shoulder of one of his teachers.
    After we got home, I went to my teaching Internet site and wrote a new index.  I had decided to try to sell myself a little, so the index said something along the lines of,  "Now the creator of these multi-media lesson plans is available to teach at YOUR school!"  Here's the link.  I uploaded it, and promptly forgot about it.  A few days later, I got an e-mail from an executive of a government supported agency which works with films for the handicapped.  He had been surfing the net looking for material to teach a film and came to a lesson plan from my site.  He liked it enough to offer me a job writing Learning Guides for their films.  I work at home and I am earning more than I did before I retired from teaching.  And, even more important, I'm once again in a position where I can help young people develop their sensibilities.
    Even better--I'm right where I want to be.  You see, it's about time we realized that reading is no longer the major form of communication in the world.  It's television and movies.  For every book even the average educated American reads, he or she will probably see 100 movies or television shows.  Reading and writing is still important, of course, but I have always wanted to teach these skills via motion pictures.  We need to start with the movie, then move to discussion, writing, and research.  I tried to do this, but never could do it completely, because there was always some jerk principal, who became an administrator because they were too lazy to do a good job teaching.  When they showed movies, it was because they wanted to keep the kids quiet so they could goof off.  They couldn't comprehend the obvious truth that the medium has changed.  McLuhan told us that nearly two generations ago, and education bureaucrats still haven't grasped that simple fact.
    That's one reason why education is in such a bad way today.
    Anyway, I have to offer a prayer of thanks to the Hand that guided that man to my web page.  Fate or God, I'm back on my feet.

    It gives me lots more money to pour into Rocinante, the Money Wagon.

    We had a show at Vero Beach.  That's about a four hour drive, so I wanted to do everything right.  I checked out the camper as best as I could, then filled the plastic overflow reservoir with antifreeze.  We started out about eight o'clock.  I pulled into a Citgo Station to fill up.  It took us about forty minutes.  We were stuck behind some schmuck for about five minutes.  The gas hose was not in his tank, so I assumed he was just paying for his gas.  Wrong.  The guy was just sitting in his car behind tinted windows, doing--well, I don't know what the heck he was doing.
    By this time, I couldn't back up and pull into another pump--they were all full with cars going in the other direction.  The pump in front of the schmuck was empty, but instead of pulling up, he just slowly got out of his car, his fat gut hanging over his drooping trousers,  and slowly filled up the car, something like Li'l Abner sitting on a log, but Abner had more energy.  Then, without moving his car, the meathead stopped to talk with a friend in another vehicle, finally disappearing for fifteen minutes or so into the office.
    I would have left a long time ago, but Freddy was in the office buying a Slurpy.  By the time he got back to the car, escape routes were all blocked by cars going in the other direction.
    After what seemed like an eternity, we headed back to the highway.  We had driven about a mile when my wife shouted out, "I forgot the cash box.  We have to go back."
    So we went back for the cash box.  Now dark, we had lost the advantgage of light as we started again on the highway.  Suddenly my wife screamed again.  "We're overheating!  Pull over!"
    Sure enough, the temperature gauge had blown again and we were shooting hot water over the engine.  I opened the hood and saw the reason instantly.
    "Damn it," I swore.  In my haste to get everything just right, I had neglected to put the cap on the plastic overflow tank on the radiator.
    The engine cooled down quickly.  I opened the radiator cap and threw in what was left of my antifreeze, then went to the side of the car and tapped our holding tank for fresh water to top off the radiator.  But what could we use to cover the plastic tank?  I tried the cap from a package of unappetizingly colored green pringles, but it was too big.  Then we tried the cap from the jar of antifreeze--too small.  We tried several other caps in the camper--the green ice cube maker that you fill halfway up and it makes about enough ice for two drinks, the cap from a Raid sprayer.  Finally we ended up with a cap from one of Diane's spice jars.  It didn't fit, but it was close enough in size for me to secure it with duck tape and drive to Autozone, where the engine overheated again.
    We bought three cans of antifreeze and a new cap--how they found one to fit the tank was beyond me.  We also bought a new temperature gauge, figuring I could install it tomorrow morning when the engine was cold.  We now had a four hour drive ahead of us, at night, in one of Florida's most desolate areas, and weren't sure about the condition of our radiator.
    Things went fine for awhile, and I began to think we were going to make it.  We passed Lake Wales, the final oasis before Yehaw Junction, proceeded into the unlighted blackness, and Diane said, "What's that noise?  Stop the car."
    I pulled over into the driveway of a place in the middle of nowhere that sold honey.  I let the engine cool for just a couple of minutes, then took a chance on opening the radiator cap.  I wrapped it with a rag, so I wouldn't burn myself and turned the cap.  Gee, that turned easy.  Too easy.  Much too freaking easy!
    "Is there something wrong with the engine?" Diane asked, afraid that we might have cracked the block of our brand new engine.
    "You won't believe this," I said, "but I think it's entirely my fault.  I think it overheated because I just didn't give the radiator cap that extra turn to tighten it down.  With all the excitement at Autozone and the hot radiator, I just didn't cap it tight enough."
    "Are you sure?" She asked.
    "No, I'm not sure.  How can I be sure?  I think that's it.  I don't know."
    We drove back to the Walmart, bought several more cans of antifreeze, let the engine cool way down and started again.
    "How will we know if it's going to overheat again without the temperature gauge?"
    "We'll just have to stop now and then and check it out."
    Naturally, I had put in too much antifreeze, so we kept smelling it, then stopping to check the engine, which seemed okay.  Finally, after a nerve-wracking night, we pulled into a Walmart to rest, and to set the alarm for three hours away, when we would have to setup at the Vero Beach Fairgrounds.  After setting up, I figured it would be best to get that temperature gauge.  The engine seemed pretty cool, so I took the cowling off and went to work.
    When the sensor came out, I realized I had made a mistake--the engine was cool, but the coolant was still hot.  My thumb and forefinger were getting severely burned.  I tried to put the old cap back as the coolant spilled out.  I couldn't just let it go--I wasn't sure how much coolant we had left in the camper to replace it.  Ouch, my fingers were blistering as I got the sensor in place.

    And then everything was okay. The small air conditioner I had purchased for $89 worked with our small generator and kept the dogs alive.  I worked on the laptop, preparing more of the Learning Guides I was writing.  Financially, the show was our best ever, and we got home fine, with Diane's eyes glued to the temperature gauge all the way.

    The next day, we brought the trailer to Russ, who had installed the new engine a few months ago.  He worked on the front end, changed the oil, fine tuned the carbuerator, and FINALLY hooked up the speedometer.  We found the showhall in Sarasota, saw that a cat show person had already parked overnight in a camper, and pulled into the parking lot. I  must have been feeling overly confident, because I said, "Let's try the big generator," and went outside and pushed the button.  It gave a cracczzzzkkk sound and wouldn't start.
    "Must be a low bettery," I mused, and turned on the ignition.  Then, I walked around to the back of the camper and pressed the starter button.  The generator said, "cracczzzzkkk."
    "I guess the generator just won't work," I said turning off the ignition, and putting the igntiion key in my pocket.
    Rocinante continued idling, keyless, with the yellow choke light gleaming on the dashboard.
    "The car is still running."
    "Turn it off."
    "How?"
    "I don't know how to turn it off."
    I thought about disconnecting the battery, but there must have been a simpler way.  Just a short circuit or something.
    "Just for the Hell of it, I'm going to press the generator button again."
    I did.  The engine shut off.  For the rest of the weekend, every time we wanted to turn off the engine, we had to hit the starter button on the generator.  Sarasota was a pretty good show, though, so had had more money for repairs.
     "Two good shows in a row," Diane said, beaming.  "You know what that means, don't you?  The economy is getting better.  Americans know President Bush has won the war and now we'll make money, enough for me to retire from teaching a start a cattery of our own.  We'll sell Siamese kittens as well as giftware at these cat shows, you'll write your study guides, we'll buy a new camper, and we'll be happy forever!"
    And that will be the end of this Cousin Eddie image, I dared to believe.  We'd have no more money troubles, now more driving around the country in a beatup beige bomb singing Adam Sandler's "Ode to My Car," dripping excrement from leaky old tanks.  Success is waiting around the bend.
   
    But that is not how things turned out.  No, not at all.

Chapter 21