Oil Change

~1996ish

I am not a senior citizen. I am young, spry, liberated, and informed. Unlike my 80-year-old grandmother who came from an era where women were little more than possessions. Women did women things and men did men things. In my generation, however, things are different.

This is the 90's. Women of today are superior to those that were seen and not heard from our past. 

Armed this bit of information and the desire to assert my independence - self reliance - I decided it was time to change the oil in  my decade or so old Honda Civic.

A small four cylinder car; a simple task. At least according to the $17 manual. Four litres of oil and new filter in hand, I set out to give my babe an oil change.

My grandmother, who lives next door and just happened to be outside hanging her laundry asked me, "what are you doing?"

"I'm going to change my car's oil," I announced proudly.

"Oh," said my grandmother. "Do you have a pan to drain the oil into?"

Patiently , I explained to my dear grandmother that the pan was what I was going to drain the oil out of. I even pointed to the front underside of my car to show her where it was.

"Yes but what are you going to do with the oil once you drain it out?" She asked, "you can't just let it drain onto the ground."

"Oh," I said thoughtfully. What am i going to do with the oil once it drains out?

"Here," said Grandmother, "drain it into this pan, you can find something else to put it in later."

"Thank you," I said and proceeded to crawl under the car. Proof of my self reliance and independence just a few twists of the sump drainage plug away. Grandmother went back to her womanly type work of hanging laundry.

I don't know why but for some reason, none of the wrenches would fit properly. The one that fi the closest what stripping the bolt. At one point the wrench slipped and banged against the oil pan giving my hand a good thump.

"Ouch!"

"Is everything all right under there?" Grandma had stopped hanging clothes again and was standing next to the car.  Pushing myself out from under it, already griming and covered in oil despite the fact that I was accomplishing nothing, "no," I said, "Non of the wrenches seem to fit."

Grandmother took the wrench I was using and examined it carefully. "No wonder," she said. "This is an imperial wrench, you need metric tools for this car."

"What?"

"I think I have some in the house," she said disappearing into her house.

A few moments later I was back under the car pulling at the sump plug with all my strength. The wrench grandmother had given me fit perfectly, but the dam bolt wouldn't budge. "Here," said grandmother handing me a hammer, "give it a couple of whacks with this."

Two whacks, one good torgue, and it was drain city. I sayed underneath to watch while grandmother changed the oil filter above.

Ten minutes later my little Honda was lubed up and ready to go.

"Thank you," I stammered to grandma somewhat amazed and embarrassed.

"Don't feel bad, she said, "I had a hard time too, the first time I changed the oil in one of those metric cars."