It was bad enough when my husband’s van wouldn’t start a
couple weeks ago when he had a doctor’s appointment, but this past weekend, the
darned van’s timing was even worse.
First,
let me backtrack a bit. Thanks to my
uncle, the van finally was jump-started on the Monday after the doctor’s visit.
My husband drove it around the block a couple times, parked it back in the
garage, and didn’t bother with it again until the following weekend. I probably
also should mention that when the hood was first opened so my uncle could
charge the battery, he found a mouse’s nest under there. That tells you how
often my husband drives his van.
Last
weekend, while I was still lying in bed, my husband announced at 9 a.m. that he
was going to go get gas. “Then we’ll be all set to go pick up Colleen at the
airport,” he said.
Colleen,
my friend from Oregon, was arriving at 10 p.m. to spend the week with us.
I
fell back to sleep and was awakened by my husband about a half-hour later.
Before I even was able to open my eyes, he said, “We’ve got trouble.”
“Define
‘trouble’,” I said.
“My
van won’t start. I tried jump-starting
it again, but nothing happened. You think maybe the mice chewed the wires?”
I
groaned and pulled the covers over my head.
“It’s a holiday weekend,” I said, my voice muffled underneath the
blanket. “There’s not even anyone around to fix the van.”
“Well,
then,” he said, “As much as I hate driving your car, I guess we’ll have to use
it to go pick up Colleen. But there’s a problem with your car, too.”
I
sat up and stared at him.
“You
don’t have any seats in the back,” he said.
He
was right. I had completely forgotten that I’d removed the seats and put them
out in the garage, so my dogs would have a nice big, flat area on which to
stretch out whenever they rode in my car.
So now, if I didn’t put the seats back in, poor Colleen would end up
having to sit on the floor.
I
went out to the garage and tried to lift one of the seats, which was covered
with dust and cobwebs. I couldn’t even
budge it, it was so heavy. And even if I had been able to lift it, I had no
clue how to reinstall it. I had visions of my husband stepping on the gas on
the way home from the airport, and Colleen falling backwards with her feet up
in the air in the back seat, when the seat came loose.
I rushed
back into the house and asked my husband for help.
“You
know I can’t lift anything,” he said. “I’ll end up in the emergency room.”
He
finally suggested that I call AAA and have someone come check out his van’s
battery.
“And
what if it’s something other than the battery?” I asked him. “Something much
worse?”
“Then
get the guy to help you put the seats back into your car. You’re a woman, you
can charm him into it!”
I
rolled my eyes. At my age, I figured the only guy who’d give me a second look
would be a cosmetic surgeon scouting for business.
I
called AAA and they said they would send over their special battery-service
truck right away. I was still in my pajamas at the time, so I rushed to get
dressed.
“Put
on something low-cut,” my husband said, teasing me. “We want the AAA guy to be
putty in your hands!”
I
glared at the back of his head.
The
AAA truck arrived within an hour. When
I first set eyes on the driver, I nearly started laughing. The “guy” I was
supposed to charm turned out to be a woman.
She
jump-started the battery, then tested it. It wouldn’t hold the charge. That’s
when she told me it probably would be a good idea to invest in a new one. At
that point, I was willing to buy a whole new car if it meant getting to the
airport in time to pick up Colleen. I bought the battery and the technician
installed it.
“You
know,” she said, “it’s a good idea to drive the van at least a couple times a
week, otherwise this battery will die, too, and it will void your warranty.”
When
I told my husband the news, he was both pleased and upset. He was pleased that
the mice hadn’t destroyed anything under the hood and that his van was running
again, but he was upset he’d actually have to drive the vehicle twice a week.
“You
know how much I hate to leave the house now that I’m retired,” he complained.
“Yes,
I know. I practically have to put
dynamite under your recliner just to get you out of it.”
“And
I always hibernate all winter,” he added.
“Don’t
worry, then,” I said. “I’ll take your van for a spin a couple times a week. But
you know how bad I am at backing it out of the garage. I use the ‘step on the
gas, aim for the doorway and pray’ method.”
Well, that was one way, I
discovered, to get him out of the house.
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