Sunday, our car battery died dead, leaving us stranded on Jekyll Island at twilight. The car was loaded up with beach gear, picnic basket and kids when we turned the key and...nothing - no sputter, no groan, not even a sigh. Just dead silence.
The battery had been ailing for some time and had given plenty of warning about its approaching fate. Cranking the motor had become more and more tedious, and each time, the motor reluctantly turned over, we muttered, "need a new battery." But like so many other things, we put off the task because we were "too busy."
Fortunately, one of the few picnickers still on the beach loaned us his jumper cables, that handy gadget everyone should keep in his car, but we didn't. The car started easily off power generated by another vehicle, and we were on our way home.
Prior to locating the cables, someone had offered to go to the nearest service station and send help. But with today's energy crunch, w questioned how many service stations would even be open at dark on Sunday. If so, what operator would want to respond to an anonymous call for help in area where the crime rate after dark continues to rise?
Our momentary predicament reminded me of another time I found myself stranded by a dead battery. It happened in another era when frequent gas wars forced gasoline prices below 25 cents a gallon and service stations vied for customers with grand give-aways of dishes, glasses, placemats and the every popular saving stamps. Regardless, we knew even then an SOS dispatched to a service station would not bring help.
Death had finally brought peace to the soul of an elderly relative who had suffered a debilitating disease for years. And we came to her funeral out of respect for her life, not grief for her death. Just before she died, she requested that she be buried next to her mother in a small country cemetery some 50 miles from metropolitan Dallas where plans had been finalized for years.
Deathbed wishes are usually met if possible and my family intended to see that this wish be fulfilled. However, at the time, more than a quarter of a century ago, these cemetery records preserved on looseleaf note book paper were not kept with meticulous precision. Officials couldn't really tell my family whether or not there was a vacant plot or not, but they offered to "dig down and see." They did caution that we schedule the graveside services early enough to permit all mourners to depart by sundown when the gates were locked for the night.
And so our small parade of mourners, mostly relatives, set out on our afternoon journey not knowing if we had a final resting place for our aunt. We were understandably relieved to find that we did and the service moved along smoothly.
Because the cemetery was laid out in the shape of an E with all of the branch roads dead-ending in the woods, we had to depart single file. The very last two vehicles to leave were the first to arrive - my uncles large Cadillac and my dad's smaller Chevrolet. Dad started his engine easily, but my uncle's big black car refused to grind a noise. (Neither of them had jumper cables either.)
"Just drive up the highway a bit and send a service man back," my uncle told his younger brother, my dad.
"Can't you imagine the help we'll get if I drive in and say, "I've got a dead battery up in the cemetery. Will you go recharge it?"
My uncle agreed that did sound somewhat suspicious. The short road and the great difference in automobile size made pushing my uncle's car fast enough to start difficult, but some how they managed. And we drove out of the cemetery just before sundown and the locking of the gates.
If there is a moral to these two tales - then surely it must be - when the battery coughs, take heed and always carry jumper cables.
1979
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