You’ll Get A Charge Out of This Story

Today’s guest writer, Janet, is a dear friend from waaaay back.  As in, back in the days of high school.  Which was when telephones had curly cords and were actually attached to walls.  Not so far back as rotary dials, though–push buttons were becoming downright common.

Janet captures an unsuspected treasured moment with those in the same car, on the same ride, as yourself in Life’s Adventure Park.   Thank you for sharing, Janet. Legoland

Mom’s battery in her car died the other day.  She called me….not because I’m amazing with auto mechanics but because I’m the closest in physical location.  Said she had a battery charger and could I come over so that she’s not doing this by herself. Of course I said yes….not knowing a lick about how to charge a battery.  I don’t even know for sure how to jump-start one with another car.
 
I called my husband on my way and got the basics….black/negative, red/positive.  Fingers crossed and a Hail Mary and we’re good to go.
 
Mom’s and my first dilemma is that there’s a plastic cap over the positive charge piece.  Mom was sure it didn’t come off and I was sure it should because we needed metal, not plastic (I did pay attention in science).  Finally purely by accident I squeeze the cap and off it pops…. Mom was very impressed. 
 
We had the battery charger sitting on a stool and Mom plugged the extension cord into the wall.  I told her not to plug it into the battery charger until I put the clamps onto the car….black/negative, red/positive.  Mom was again impressed… so I had to admit that my husband told me on the phone. 
 
We now weren’t sure when the last time the battery charger had been used, and when Dad was alive he kept everything from 1902 on…. So when Mom plugged in the extension cord, we both scrunched up our faces and turned away.  Nothing.  Phew.
 
Now we needed to press the “on” button.  Even better, we both turned our backs to it, hunched our shoulders AND scrunched up our faces….and I pushed the button.  It worked…just like it was supposed to.  And no explosions.  Whoo hoo.  We were now professionals. 
 
Mom did point out that turning my back might not have been the best as my hair would have gone POOF if there was fire.  Then we discussed all the “hip” hairstyles you could have with no hair in the back and longer in the front.
 
After the battery charged to the green we unplugged everything and I told Mom she should turn on her car and let it run awhile.  She decided she should back out of the garage so that the exhaust didn’t come back in… good plan. I called my husband while she was doing this and told him we were successful, and that I had advised she run the car for a while. 
He told me this would work, but for us to be sure to open the garage door…  Really?  Like we brilliant mechanics wouldn’t have thought of that?  How insulting!  J  Mom and I laughed and laughed.
 
It’s amazing what odd little things give you a moment that you will cherish and not forget.
 

Percolate: Let Your Best Self Filter Through

 

PercolateElizabeth Hamilton-Guarino has crafted a very creative and inspiring book. She explores the corollary of self-improvement strategies through the fresh analogy of coffee:

  • Allow for change to brew
  • Choose a bolder brew
  • Create your own best blend
  • Grow from bean to brew
  • Brew strength
  • Expresso yourself
  • Chillax and have an iced coffee
  • Buy the next round
  • Percolate peace

The author is the creator of The Best Ever You Network online community and radio show.  She has used her experiences of “thrive and survive” to inspire and empower others.

“Percolate” is the author’s metaphor for “how you can move forward with growing awareness, live in the present moment, and experience greater joy and peace.” She encourages readers to “never give up on living your best life every day.”

This book presents helpful, inspirational, supportive guidance in a brand-new way.  New seekers will gain from this material; seasoned journey-makers will be tickled at the fresh approach.  The author’s voice is engaging, her style is welcoming, and her humor is infectious.

“Smiles are infectious; frowns are, too.  Which infection do you want?”  –Elizabeth Hamilton-Guarino

I was not paid to endorse this book, whether monetarily or with coffee.  Hay House gifted me the book in exchange for my honest opinion of it.  Love of coffee not required for love of this book.

AmazonHay HouseBarnes & NobleChapters Indigo

 

 

 

Gonna be late, Mom–car on fire.

My husband and I were dozing in bed with our phones on the nightstands, only half-asleep until our high school sons returned home safely.  It’s common (and expected!) practice in our home to keep in touch by texting: they send a heads-up before they leave for home, we appreciate the respect, and they get to go out again in the future.  This particular night one son was returning from a closing shift at work, the other from an out-of-town baseball game.

Sophomore Son sends his message: Heading home.

Me The Mom replies: See you soon!  Watch out for deer.

Said son arrives home, checks in with us face-to-face, goes to bed, and the house settles again into semi-slumber.

Senior Son sends his message: Stopped at farm down the road. Car on fire.

Me The Mom flies out of bed, instantly awake and exclaiming “WHAT?!?”

Hero Hubby is now also awake, asking me what’s going on.  I read the text aloud to him in a daze, then rush upstairs out of our basement bedroom for better cell phone reception. At the top of the stairs I place the call to Senior Son.

Voicemail is not a reassuring option in these circumstances.  Just saying.

Hero Hubby arrives calmly upstairs, fully dressed. “Any more info?” he smoothly asks as he reaches for the truck keys on his way out the door.

“No!” I reply as I frantically stab out a text: Just called. Can’t get through. Call asap.

“Well, at least we know where he’s at.  I’ll go take a look,” Hero Hubby says as the door gently sighs shut behind him. I continue pounding out messages:

Me The Mom: Call.  Are you okay?  Call now.

No response.  To be fair, I gave it a very long wait of an eternal seven seconds.  All right, probably five. At the most.

Me The Mom: Call. Now. Dad is on his way. Are you okay??  Call.

I was working on the next steadily intensifying message when Senior Son’s call came through. Sweet relief at an actual voice, and God bless technology.

It turns out his car wasn’t on fire at all: however, a van that had hit a deer head-on and then tried to continue driving, was.  (No one was hurt.  Well…no people were hurt….) A roadblock had been set up by the police, fire trucks, and ambulance, and no one was getting through.  Our son was simply trying to let us know that he was going to be later than anticipated, and he didn’t want us to worry.

Not worry, with that message?!?

To be fair, his first words upon coming through the door back home were, “I am so sorry!  I reread the text and can totally see how you thought it could be me!  But, um, Mom, if my car was on fire…don’t you think I would have called instead of texted?!?”

All bets are off with teenagers.  And mothers of such.

image from Google Images, creative commons
What I had in my Mama head…which actually is very close to what happened.