A couple of days ago I wrote a piece called Numbers. In it I bragged about how great my Toyota Avalon has been. For a WWII child that is a hard thing to do. I grew up hating the Japanese, and it took me a long time to finally break down and buy other than US made.
This afternoon, I promised to take my daughter and grand-daughter to see a surgeon. It seems my eleven year old grand-daughter took up playing basketball and broke a finger by jamming it. The ER X-ray showed joint damage and the recommendation was to see a surgeon. Since my daughter is fighting her own demons, and in the past year has lost sight in one eye, and developed severe balance problems she has not been able to work or to drive. Grumpa to the rescue, or so I thought.
Peg and I climbed into the car with our usual achy bodies, and with my foot on the brake I touched the start button: nothing happened, not a click, not a growl, not a cheep. Don’t panic, I pulled the fob from my pocket and placed it on the button, then I pushed. I thought perhaps my fob was without power. It did not change anything. Suddenly, the light went on above my head. Last night before retiring, I poked my head out into the garage, and noticed the dome light on the Avalon burning ever so dimly. I shut it off and hoped the battery would rejuvenate by morning. Obviously it didn’t. I called my daughter, and she had to reschedule her appointment.
Did I jinx the car by bragging about it? Did I jinx myself by bragging? Was the ghost of WWII punishing me for buying the conquered country’s product? Does it matter?
I calmly pulled out my battery charger and hooked it up. After a couple of hours the Avalon had life again. Then it struck me, wouldn’t it be nice if we could do the same with our own batteries of life? I would pay dearly to have a gadget that I could hook up to, and become reinvigorated within two hours. Some people say we have that gift from the time we are born, they call the process sleep.
Filed under: Biography, family | Tagged: Avalon, Dead Battery, Demons, WWII | 2 Comments »
