Bad Luck Blueberries
Yesterday morning, I had big plans. The Boulder Count Fair Parade was going to start at 10 a.m., and I was up by 6:30 or so. I sliced up some fruit and took out ingredients to make blueberry muffins, which would make good snacks at the parade. I had a big container of fresh blueberries I’d gotten on sale at the grocery store. Turns out I was out of baking powder, and had no cream of tartar so I couldn’t make my own.
Off to the store I went. Zipped straight to the aisle where the baking products were, grabbed what was on sale, and got out of there (yes, I paid first). Jump in the car, stick in the key, turn it…
Click.
Are you kidding me? Gah! Called my daughter to come help me push it. It is a stick and I can usually pop it and start it, at least enough to get it home. I had fan and lights, so I knew I wasn’t completely dead. It started right up when I popped it, and I drove straight to Autozone, hoping this was just a bad battery. But that would have been too easy. Battery is good, but the starter isn’t getting juice. Could be a wire, could be a bad starter. Either way, it had to be towed to the mechanic’s. Not that I know any here. I’ve not needed one since we moved here. And of course, it was a Saturday. I had to take what I could get. The car is now sitting at Aubry’s Automotive waiting for a diagnoses.
All because I wanted to make something with blueberries.
I wouldn’t even think about the blueberries, but this is not the first time I’ve had car trouble related to blueberries. A while back, oh, about 12 or so years ago now, there was another incident. Shortly after my divorce, I took the kids, who were then 11 and 8 or so, to the local blueberry farm. “Local” meaning about an hour away. It was a bright sunny day, mid-summer, and I had the day off. The kids and I picked blueberries until we had a good batch of them, probably a gallon or so. When we got back to the car, it turns out Tony had locked the car, with my keys inside. My cell phone too. No one I knew was available to help, or bring me a set of spare keys. I had no choice but to break a window to get back in. I asked the farmer for a hammer, wrapped the head in my denim shirt, and tapped the smallest window on the car – the rear non-opening vent window.
Turns out that window is almost the most expensive one on the car, and my liability-only insurance sure wasn’t going to pay for it. Cost me $225 to replace it some weeks later.
All because I wanted to pick blueberries.
Coincidence? I wonder.
