Since that October morning when I found my car engulfed in ice, Dad has been insisting that I park my car in the garage to avoid scraping ice and snow from the windows.  Despite the thoughtfulness and kindness of his gesture, I resisted, not wanting the faithful Suburban exiled to the driveway and exposed to winter weather.  He prevailed upon me to begin parking in the garage.  “Alright,” I relented.  I hopped into my car and turned the ignition, only to hear the starter wind to a quick death with dimming dome lights.  The battery had died.  “We can’t switch spots tonight, Dad,” I informed him.  “My battery is dead.”  I put on a good face, but anxiety started to sabotage my calm as I ordered sequentially in my mind everything I would need to do to replace the battery and get to work.  The night was very dark, and we resolved to have the faithful Suburban jump my battery the next morning.  I hoped Dad would forget to wake up after reading late into the night—I could manage the job alone, and I wanted my 85-year-old father to get a good rest.  But he shuffled into the kitchen as the sky began to gray, ready to get to work.  With my battery cabled to his, my car started right up, and I drove off with a grateful honk and wave.  At O’Reilly, I removed the old battery and presented it to the store clerk.  He scanned the purchase receipt I had saved, and gave me the good news that it still had one month left on the two-year warranty.  Without any fuss, he handed me a new battery, which I installed.  I celebrated the savings with the purchase of two new badly-needed wiper blades and a happy “thank you” text to Dad.  Tonight, ahead of the coming storm, my car is parked in the garage.  But I still feel bad for the burb.

The Faithful Suburban