Empty Engine Christmas Jamboree

At some point I planned on writing about my dead car stereo and how my mind fills the space between signals. By the time I reach Manchester, even NPR stumbles into static.

But I won't bore you with those musings. Yet. Instead, I can wipe my brow in relief. Because the radio failed in rural Tennessee and Georgia, I heard the unusual rumblings beneath the old Corolla's hood. As I left the interstate and rolled down along Georgia Rte. 20, it worsened. I got no help from idling through a roadblock caused by the genius idea to drop 3 millions square feet of retail space onto a two-lane exurban highway.

Conferring with my father, we decided I should just check the oil when I hit the gas station. Although unclear at first, the dipstick showed a bone-dry engine. With 1,000 miles until my next oil change, I couldn't believe those results. A few minutes later, the auto store clerk confirmed, before the thirsty engine gulped down four quarts.

Twenty minutes later with the engine humming in old form, I came to rest in Cumming. In the morning, the repair garage found nothing amiss, just a little too much oil. Not a drop leaked onto my parent's cul-de-sac. Sunday, the car hurtled through the gusts of North Georgia and crossed Monteagle without incident.

I keep waiting for the ugly rattles' reemergence. I cannot shake the feeling that this was the first chapter in my car's engine troubles, not its last.

Answers are fleeting. Without a leak, what caused the oil to vanish?Did the auto dealer which usually changes my oil short me a quart or two, hoping to strong-arm me into a new car? I cannot prove that. It's a bold accusation to levy against the dealership.

But no other logical cause presents itself. Which leaves me to face a more difficult tasks than buying a new car - finding a new mechanic that I can trust. Even after the dealership's support of the failed English-only amendment, I kept going. Now, too much doubt clouds my view of the folksy Toyota service team.