Priused

This evening, my daughter drove to her karate practice. She had a really good time -- she particularly enjoys getting up in her opponent's face during sparring, and will run from the other side of the mat to do it. This almost-ferocious approach serves her well in competitions.

When she was done, she called to say that she was leaving. She'd been a little concerned about the weather, because it was raining heavily, but, she said, it had stopped. Good deal, I said. See you in about ten minutes. Two minutes later, she called again to say that she was having a problem. The car, it seemed, would not start. She put her foot on the brake, pushed the power button, and: nothing. No dash lights. No power. Nada. Well, hell.

So I drove down there, pulled in next to her, and slid into the seat. Put my foot on the brake, pushed the button. The dash obligingly lit. I put it in reverse, and backed up about six feet. "I swear it didn't start before!" she said. I believed her. She's not a liar, and, even if she was, why would she lie about that?

I was just glad to be able to help. What fathers do, right?