Another tale by Bob Dvorak. I am proud to say there are many more.

George and Helen were motoring down I-75 in their Winnebago Minnie. It was that time of year when they abandoned the snow and ice of Toledo in exchange for the warm and sunny climes of the Florida “winter”.

Like so many of the “snowbirds”, they expected it to be a nice, easy, two- or three-day drive down to Ft. Myers. And it would have been so, as in other years, except for a minor problem — the sudden quantity of steam nearly obliterating the view through the windshield.

As George cut the engine and coasted to the side of the road, Helen was dialing Triple-A for a tow. A short time later, a flatbed pulled up in front of them, emblazoned with the logo for “Bryce’s Towing”. A man wearing the ubiquitous navy-blue garage-man uniform, with “Larry” in the little embroidered oval, grabbed his tow hooks, crawled under the travel home, made his connections, tilted the bed, and pushed the button.

Alas, as the cable drew taut and began to pull the rolling home up the ramp, the gearbox on the cable gave out some terrible noises and the whole process stopped. Larry shrugged his shoulders, disconnected the Winnebago from the cable, and drove off.

Forty-five minutes later, another “Bryce’s Towing” flatbed showed up. A fellow whose uniform was identical (except for the name in the oval, “Fred”) hopped out and repeated the process. Sure enough, the process repeated — the camper got halfway up the ramp and the whole thing ground to a halt. Fred shrugged his shoulders, disconnected, reassembled his truck, and drove off.

Two hours went by. Finally, a third truck showed up from Bryce’s, this time, a much larger model. Out popped “Wally”, who bounded forward apologetically, vowing to get things moving so the couple could have the repairs made and be on their way. With a wave of his hand, George stopped him mid-sentence, saying, “I just want to know one thing. Are you a good winch, or a bad winch?”