Sally Breslin: My Life: WHY DO VEHICLES HAVE TO DIE AT THE WORST POSSIBLE TIMES?

Have you ever noticed how vehicles seem to choose the worst possible times to die?

Over the years, I've had my cars wheeze and take their last breath right before a major appointment, on the way to an interview, on my first day of a new job, and in the middle of a bridge. They never died, however, when I was headed to the dentist's office for a root canal, or to eat dinner at my aunt's - the one who tried to make an apple pie in a double-boiler and actually believed spaghetti came from underground pasta mines in Italy.

I still vividly recall when, back in 2012, during this exact time of year, a vehicle problem caused a state of near panic for both my husband and me. It was the day Colleen, my friend from Oregon, was arriving for a weeklong visit with us, and we had to pick her up at the airport at 10 PM.

I was awakened that morning by my husband, who said, “We’ve got trouble.”

“Define trouble,” I muttered, half asleep.

“My van won’t start. I tried jump-starting it, but nothing happened. You think maybe mice might have chewed some wires?”

I groaned and pulled the covers over my head, not wanting to hear any more. Since my husband's retirement, he'd driven his van only about once a month, if that. There could have been a family of wolverines living in it for all he knew.

“You won't find anyone to fix it on a weekend,” I said, my voice muffled underneath the blanket. “And certainly not before Colleen arrives tonight. So we'll just have to use my car, that's all.”

“Well, there’s a problem with your car, too,” he said.

I flung the covers down, sat up and stared at him.

“You don’t have any seats in the back,” he said.

He was right. I'd completely forgotten the seats had been removed and put 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. But now, if I didn’t put at least one seat back in, poor Colleen would end up having to sit on the floor.

So 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, when the aforementioned seat tipped over.

ONE OF MY CAR SEATS
OUT IN THE GARAGE

I rushed back into the house and asked my husband to come out to the garage to help me.

“You know I can’t lift anything,” he said. “I’ll end up in the emergency room.”

He had a point. At the time, he had such bad knees, they made scraping noises when he walked. And he constantly complained about his back sounding like popcorn popping every time he bent over, followed by what he described as a shooting pain that went from the cheek of his butt all the way down the back of his leg (better known as sciatica).

He finally suggested that I call AAA and have someone come check out his van’s battery.

"If we're lucky," he said, "they can just pop in a new one and we'll be all set."

“And what if it’s something other than the battery?” I asked him. “Something much worse?”

“Then get the guy to help you put one of 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 hurried to get dressed.

“Put on something low-cut,” my husband called out to me, joking. “We want the AAA guy to be putty in your hands!”

I glared at him through the bathroom wall.

The AAA truck arrived within an hour. When I first set eyes on the driver, I had to struggle not to laugh. The “guy” I was supposed to charm turned out to be a woman.

She managed to jump-start the battery, then tested it. It wouldn’t hold the charge. That’s when she said it was time 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. She then asked how often the van was driven. The spider webs on it probably were a dead giveaway it wasn't too often.

When I told her only once a month or less, she said, “You know, 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 his van was running again, but was upset he was expected to actually drive the vehicle twice a week.

“You know how much I hate to leave the house now that I’m retired,” he complained.

I definitely knew. I practically had to plant dynamite under his recliner to get him out of it.

“And I also hibernate all winter,” he added.

I'd never driven his van before, nor did I ever want to, but I said, “Don’t worry about it. I’ll take your van out for a spin a few times a week. But you know how bad I am at backing anything out of the garage. I always use the ‘step on the gas, aim for the doorway and pray’ method.”

That was one way to get him out of the house.

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Sally Breslin is a native New Englander and an award-winning syndicated humor columnist who has written regularly for newspapers and magazines all of her adult life. She is the author of several novels in a variety of genres, from humor and romance to science-fiction. Contact her at: sillysally@att.net

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