Yesterday had a couple challenges. The Panzer, my trusty 2010 Mercedes GLK350, rests quietly down in the farm yard. It’s return to the farm amid the fading COVID panic and the sudden rising gasoline crisis had some interesting moments. There are other issues appearing on the “to do” list, but getting the 70 miles to Arlington and then returning with said vehicle only led to more items on the “to do” list.
I have been at Refuge Farm long enough that some of the complete old business has risen to become new again. The plush Anderson screen door on the side door is inoperative. The other two have issues associated with the house attempting to (slowly) move down hill. Joys of home ownership. But other things leapt unexpectedly to the “to do” list.
There is what had been number two on the Weekly Urgency list. It is number one this morning. The second Moderna vaccination is in an hour. My hair is brushed. The Panzer awaits, but there is more trouble to follow the inconvenience of fixing trouble.
There is the matter of that unsettling Teutonic jabbering from the dashboard in bright light about the passenger’s side tail-lights being burned out. The existing rig on the car has lasted longer than the Anderson doors, which were sturdy enough, but having a warning light after flogging the vehicle to Arlington for necessary repairs and returning it to the farm after the surreal experience of driving I-66, under extensive repairs for thirty miles out of the Imperial City made it memorable. The old broken white lane markers covered by new ones in varying patterns, drivers seemingly unaware that a solid line, white or yellow, suggests “no lane change.”
And the dashboard shouting at me about external lights, and the real problem that following traffic behind me might be unaware of alterations in the Panzer’s speed and intentions.
Remember being a minor car repair person? For American steel, this was a no-brainer. Tools required? A Philips-head screwdriver and a new bulb from any auto parts place. Maybe ten minutes in complete execution. Mercedes? The diagram above demonstrates the level of intricacy, and is only the path to follow to get to the place Detroit Iron offered with simplicity.
Two interior panels need to be removed, twisting plastic control knobs counter-clockwise 90-degrees, accessing another interior panel, same twist, and internal removal of the lighting support assembly, twisting human arm up inside the inner fender. Replace with a bulb I don’t have, manufactured in some nation that used to be part of some other empire.
The old Detroit way was easier. Tools? One Phillips head screwdriver. Execution? Two little screws, remove the lens, replace the bulb and two little screws go back in. Ah, Detroit!
I remember the old solution to mobility fondly. The best Detroit Iron I ever flogged was Dad’s 1985 Delta 88 Royal. It was his company car when new, and offered to him for sale once the two year company-paid lease was over. I took it and drove, on and off, for more then a decade of delightful continental travel. During the research on the Mercedes, I ran across an ad for an ’85 convertible Delta 88. Maybe that is now on the “to do” list.
Detroit Iron!
Copyright 2021 Vic Socotra
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