It’s a helpless feeling when your car won’t start. It’s even worse when you’re waiting to roll through Prescott as Float No. 50 in the Veterans’ Day Parade, and there’s a Vietnam veteran sitting in the front seat next to you looking forward to being a part of it. “I think your battery’s dead,” Jake said as I clicked the key on and off uselessly, watching the red “oil” and “hot” lights taunt me while the engine didn’t even try to turn over.
Jake and I had been having a great conversation about our favorite cars until that moment. We were tucked into a parking spot on Pleasant, in a blue 1966 Galaxie 500 convertible decked out in patriotic banners and flags. The Galaxie was my parents’ first car when they got married. It lives at our house now, spending most of its time safely stored in our garage. My dad and Mike spent a lot of time overhauling it, taking it from vintage to modern steering and brakes, plus a new radiator with a fan after an overheating incident during our last parade. I was stumped why it wouldn’t start now.
The horse unit in front of us trotted past the car and some of the folks in my parade unit came over to see why I wasn’t pulling into the lineup. “It’s dead,” I said, no doubt sounding panicked. “You’ll have to go on without us.” I called Mike and told him what happened and he agreed to hustle over with jumper cables and tools. I took a deep breath and tried the key again. Nothing. I watched our unit turn the corner and roll down the street and wondered how disappointed my passenger was going to be if we missed the big event.
Then I remembered my dad was #99 in the line-up, a few blocks away with the Noontime Lions Club. I promised Jake I’d be right back and took off running down Willis Street as fast as I could. I passed our float and waved to them, and they waved back, no doubt wondering if I’d abandoned my car and rider or maybe had an urgent need for the restroom.
A splash of yellow vests appeared ahead and I slowed down and looked for the tall, bald guy who has bailed me out of my share of life adventures. I gave him a quick hug and the words tumbled out as I tried to explain what had happened and how it couldn’t be the battery because it had been running fine all morning and I had the car turned off while we waited. Without a second thought, he joined me in a brisk walk to my parking spot, troubleshooting out loud as we hurried back.
I introduced him to Jake and he hopped into the driver’s seat. A few seconds later Big Blue roared back to life and my heart stopped racing so quickly. “It’s the neutral kill switch,” he said. “When it does that, just shift it into neutral and it should start just fine.” Somewhere in the back of my head, this piece of knowledge drifted forward after the reminder, just a little too late to be useful. I’m sure I’ll never forget it again.
“Thanks, Dad,” I said for probably the millionth time in my life, and he gave me another hug and declined my offer of a two-block ride back to his spot. I looked over at Jake and smiled. “Are you ready for the parade?” I asked and he nodded. We pulled forward and told the guy with the clipboard what had happened and he waved us into the lineup.
And there we were, our own solitary float, wedged between the Post 78 American Legion motorcyclists revving their Harleys and the Marine Corps color guard in their spotless uniforms. I heard people shout “thank you for your service” as we passed by the crowds and waved out the car windows. I think we were both touched to see how many people were out celebrating veterans like Jake who stepped up to serve our country and didn’t always get the best welcome when they came home.
As I drove Big Blue back to our house, I thought about the many things I am grateful for as we head into the holiday season. One of my big ones is that I still have my dad.