Before we depended on cellphones, we somehow managed life. Looking back though, I remember many days – mostly involving travel – that would have been lots easier. This little story was one of them:

My sister-in-law, Julie, raised five accomplished children. She and Ted enjoyed their tennis and golf games together. She kept a neat-as-a-pin household while occasionally indulging in her bridge game or a good book. As much as I admired her, I have to say she was not in her element behind the wheel. There was that one trip to the Adirondacks …

Julie’s close friend in Rochester had a lovely second home near Old Forge, New York. W-a-a-a-y up there. Her friend invited Julie to use the woodsy retreat whenever she wanted. So, Julie invited me to join her for a girls’ long weekend away to celebrate my 45th birthday. I drove to Rochester and the next morning we headed out in Julie’s little red car.

The glass-fronted house faced a pond, making for delightful views every morning over our third cups of coffee. The four days seemed both lazy and busy. We cooked in and we dined out. We shopped and we hiked in the autumn leaves. We went to a quilt show and the movies. Total relaxation. No obligations. Fabulous.

Then, sadly, we had to return to the real world. We jabbered all the way south to the NY thruway, turning west toward Rochester. About ten minutes past Syracuse, the car coughed. Then again. “Oh, no,” Julie said. “I’m not getting any acceleration.”

I asked, “Do you have gas?” She looked … at the dead-empty gas gauge.

“We can’t possibly be out of gas.” She was upset.

I said, “Julie, we didn’t buy any on this trip.”,

“But I had a full tank when we left home.”

“Julie, we’ve driven from Rochester to the Adirondacks and tooled around for four days. I unfolded her New York State map and added up the miles. We had driven 300 miles without any of our mileage in the mountains. “How big is your gas tank?” I asked. She didn’t know.

And then she said, “Why didn’t you tell me to fill it up?”

I bristled. “Julie, this is your car, I assumed you knew its range.”

Then I said, “Never mind, we need to get some help. We have to hang something white on the antenna. All I have is underpants.” Julie groaned, while I got to my suitcase in the back seat. “It’s an emergency signal and the troopers always stop to help,” I added.

I was tying the panties on the top of the antenna when I heard an air brake from the traffic zooming by in the dark. The big semi slowed down, pulled over, and parked in the breakdown

lane in front of us. The Pepperidge Farm trailer was huge. I quickly walked to the cab before the driver could get out. I climbed up the passenger side as he rolled down the window.

I explained our predicament.

George was middle-aged, clean-shaven, and smiling. Eager to help us, he said the best he could probably do was drive me to the next exit toll booth. He assured me they would call the repair truck for gas. “Sounds good to me,” I said, “but first a few questions about you.”

He laughed and said, ‘I would want my wife to do the same thing.” So, I subjected him to the Spanish Inquisition and returned to tell Julie the plan. She rolled down her window and said, “I’m not getting in that truck. And if you do, I know I will never see you again.” She was very afraid.

“No, that’s not true. He’s a good guy. He lives in Stamford, Connecticut, he has driven for Pepperidge Farm for 23 years, the same amount of time he has been married. He has three children, the oldest is in college. His daughter takes dance lessons and his 12-year-old son loves football. I saw his driver’s license. He’s OK. Honest.”

Julie stayed with her car, locking the doors, while I climbed up into George’s rig.

Miles down the road, he exited and handed me over to the toll taker. I thanked him profusely and he wouldn’t let me pay his toll. Jumping down, I explained our situation and the toll man got on the phone quickly. About 15 minutes later, the tow truck’s flashing yellow lights pulled in and I gave him our mile marker address. Fortunately, I was able to eke out the gas and the service call fee.

Julie, alone and worried for over an hour, shed tears of relief when we arrived. I was pretty relieved myself when the engine kicked over.

Yup, we had a happy ending. But it’s yet another tale that would have been so different if we’d had that little hand-held electronic genius. It’s worth so much more than a game of Candy Crush.

Marcy O’Brien can be reached at Moby.32@hotmail.com.