My 100th post. Fitting.
Clever me, I took a photo of
the battery hookup when he was here last fall, but it turned out I’d photographed
the two house batteries being charged
before he did some bypass wiring. I have
no idea what I’m talking about.
Anyway, I never did buy the
charger so I borrowed one. Neighbor's
out-of-state friends had been visiting in their RV, so before they took off I
snagged the husband and asked for help with hooking up the charger, to which he
readily agreed.
He didn’t know me. He went to grab his tools while I ran
for my .jpeg, and here’s where this post’s title comes into play…
TWO seconds into his work,
I began doubting his ability. Never mind
he’s older than me; used to be a timber-guy; owns property and numerous
vehicles; plus little boys learn this
shit as soon as their older brothers can talk ‘em into handing them the tools.
But I know best...please come look at the photo…you’re doing it wrong! (the obvious implication). He finally obliged, and politely
corrected my erroneous interpretation. Managing to work despite my incessant babble and inane suggestions, he tried to explain the gizmo; but I couldn't hear him over the,
ringing inside my
head. What hubris. I love that word; lucky for me I can use it
so often.
Next morning I looked at
the gauge; now let me draw a picture first, for any other clueless out there. Zero is on the left; the number 13 or 15 on
the right (couldn’t tell without my glasses).
The indicator showed my battery at 4? and I assumed when charged it
would register around ‘12’, as in volt.
Well it didn’t. It said Zzzzero. Who turned it off? I did
what anyone would do; fiddled with switches without knowing any better, and
there was definitely power. What the ???
I
knew it; he did it wrong. How to handle this? Wait ‘til they leave, then ask (and doubt)
someone else.
Jim checked the charger;
didn’t seem concerned. I ran out and
questioned him, but he assured me it was fine.
He may or may not have offered an explanation because, again the
ringing,
“That can’t be; makes no
sense at all.”
I watched him yank out the umbilical
cords and panicked when he suggested I start ‘er up. Good thing there was that piece of cardboard
in the windshield to stave off our 100+ degree weather, ‘cause I looked like
the kid in Home Alone when she
started right up.
Being (one of) the first to
admit when I’m wrong, I laughingly told his wife the subject of the post I’d
been composing in my head since the night before; fearful of the outcome.
I’m so glad I was proven
wrong, for more reasons than the obvious.
To me that means there’s hope; at least if I can get my babbling under
control. My own Ten Step Program. I realize it's twelve, but I'll do my final Two-Steps at the honky tonk.
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