Another lesson in the art of running on empty

It has probably been 20-25 years since I penned this stanza within the greater text of a “love poem” to my wife, Kristin.

“I even love how you drive our car

Here and there, near and far.

But there’s never a gas station where you are

So I’m forced to start on empty.’”

This captivating little quirk is one of the many things that has never changed over our many decades together. It’s as chronic as her refusal to roll up the vacuum cord properly or dispose of the half-empty water bottles and gum wrappers behind her car seat. And while I have on occasion suggested that these things are done out of spite, Kristin insists she’s just too busy for that stuff.

Let me walk you through the most recent occurrence.

It was day three of our very first full weekend of babysitting our grandsons, James and Max. While we certainly relish every moment we get to spend with the boys, it becomes clearer with each interaction why humans are tuned to reproduce when they are young and filled with energy. The gig was starting to feel like a 72-hour endurance race.

In hopes of busting up the nonstop rotation of playing with blocks, playing with cars, playing with trains and playing with all of the above simultaneously, Kristin and I settled on a plan to drive out to the Wingfoot Lake hangar where the U.S. Marine Corps Reserve was holding its annual Toys for Tots drive. There, for the mere donation of a child’s toy, we could cruise right through the very living room of the Goodyear Blimp, roll right under its massive nose and maybe even catch a glimpse of Santa and Mrs. Claus in the process! The boys were amped!

We headed out to the countryside to take our place in the creeping queue of what would ultimately be thousands of vehicles set to pass through the hangar. As a perennially late pair, we had to pinch ourselves at the miracle of having arrived a full half-hour early, making us the 50th car in line! With snacks and games to keep the boys entertained, we were all set for the slow roll toward the Blimp — that’s when the dash light came on.

I can still remember the very first time Kristin noticed a “Low Fuel” light on the dash. She’d called from the road and said, “There’s a light on by the steering wheel that looks like a Minion holding a vacuum cleaner hose.”

Another interesting little personality quirk. As a cartoonist, she sees nearly everything in terms of her art. It’s a lovely way of viewing the world — especially in the face of impending disaster!

I’m not sure what gave me more anxiety, the idea of running out of gas in the middle of a line of a thousand cars, or imagining the ear-shattering shrieks of my grandsons should a tow truck need to be summoned to drag us unceremoniously away from both Santa and the Goodyear Blimp without so much as a glimpse of either.

Thanks to Kristin’s lifelong practice of leaving me on empty, I was able to calculate that our fuel reserve would at least get us through the looping queue and into the belly of the beast. If Christmas Magic held, we may even make it to a gas station afterward.

We coasted to the pump on a breath of fuel! Another joyful Christmas memory in the books!

Kristin and John would love to hear from you. Write: Drawing Laughter, P.O. Box 170, Fredericksburg, OH 44627 or email John atjlorson@alonovus.com.