"Well, there's your problem..."

From an early age, my Dad learned how to be a decent mechanic.   He didn't have just a ton of money growing up, so it was always cheaper to fix things himself, and he really seemed to enjoy it.  He ran a lawnmower repair shop as a young man, raced go-karts, and preferred to make repairs on all of his own vehicles, so he was pretty well-versed in how to keep engines running.  Having only one hand made the process a bit slower sometimes, but he never complained about that, other than to holler at me on occasion to hold something in place while he did something else to it.  As I came of an age to have my own car, he insisted on showing me how to change the tires, change the oil, check the other fluids, and do basic maintenance on it. 

Back in the early 90's, we both worked at BASF Corporation in Freeport, Tx.  I had bought his old truck, a 1988 Jeep Comanche.  He had once run it off the road and spun out into a barbed wire fence during a rainstorm, so it was already scratched and beat up all to heck and back before I ever got it, but the engine worked just fine.  I had gone to lunch one afternoon and as I made the turn off of the highway to head towards the plant, my truck died.  Just up and died.  I coasted to the side of the road and tried to restart it without success.  I was stumped.  Battery cables attached just fine, and the lights all worked.  Gas was nearly empty, but I'd driven it far beyond that point before.  There were no odd noises, it just wouldn't start.  I pulled out my giant cellphone and called Dad.

Dad was there in just a few minutes, and pulled his Dodge Dakota in behind me.  I saw him step out of the truck, and walk up to my window, which I had already rolled down.  He twirled his finger at me, telling me to try to start the engine, and he poked his head in to listen and to look at the dashboard while I did so.  I tried to start it...no luck.  Dad pulled his head back out of my truck and looked at me with this odd expression.  Then he looked skyward for a moment, took a deep breath, and turned and walked back to his truck, got in, and drove away.  I was left completely bewildered by his wordless departure.

Just a few minutes later, he pulled back in behind me.  He leisurely got out, and brought a brand new gas can with him.  Without a word, he flipped open my gas tank cover, unscrewed the lid, and proceeded to pour gas into my tank.  While he did this, he continued to look at the sky.  I'm pretty sure he was concentrating on taking slow, deep breaths at that point.  When the gas can was empty, he closed everything up, strolled back up to me and twirled his finger again.

It started right up.

Apparently, I had been mistaken in regards to just how empty my tank had really been.  He gave me that odd look again, shook his head, and walked back to his truck.  Not a word had been said the entire time, and I was left feeling like the world's biggest idiot.

I laugh so hard when I think of that day.  Since then, I've never run out of gas again...every time the needle gets close to the E, I remember Dad, looking at the sky as he held the gas can up to my truck.  I always chuckle and pull over to gas up right then.  Thanks for the lesson, Dad...you taught it well.