LOCAL ANGLES: AN AMERICAN ACT ON A WEEKEND DESIGNED FOR IT

Fourth of July weekend, that special time in the year when we shoot off fireworks, barbecue a few hamburgers and revel in our independence, brought out varying shades of red, white and blue.

It wasn't patriotism, however, that flushed those traditional colors to the surface.

I turned red with anger upon realizing that my car wouldn't start. Oddly enough, I realized this after I attempted to leave a rest stop just north of Cape Girardeau. I didn't think the battery was dead because I had no difficulty starting my trusty Camry when I left Cape.

Perhaps it was the starter. I could hear the familiar click, click, click when I turned the key. But then why would the starter go out on a relatively new car with no warning?

At a loss to figure out what to do next, I decided to lift up the hood and search for a telling sign. Sure enough the engine was still there. But no hoses appeared to be springing a leak, so I was no closer to figuring out how to start it.

Mindful that there were no jumper cables in the trunk, I decided to try and push the car while steering it toward the exit ramp. The plan was to jump back in when I felt the car was moving fast enough and pop the clutch. It was difficult getting any kind of momentum on such a flat surface, however.

The only thing I was successful in pushing was my blood pressure, by now escalating to the point of turning my face beet red. I was determined to resolve this without calling a tow truck. To do that would mean defeat, that I was not independent enough to solve this dilemma on my own. Oh, and I was too cheap to pay for the tow.

I decided to try once again to gather enough speed to spur this car into action before the sun set on my holiday adventure, which was supposed to culminate in a VP Fair weekend.

Just as I was about to pop the clutch, I heard someone screaming while running across the lawn of the rest stop area. The words seemed unintelligble.

All I could tell while looking in my rear view mirror was that there was this wild-eyed middle-aged man who appeared just a tad too enthusiastic.

That's when I noticed my face looking somewhat pale. Perhaps this person was interested in giving me a push into the arms of an accomplice. So that's what getting rolled is all about, I thought.

Failing to gather enough momentum to pop the clutch, I told my anonymous helper this was futile. I thanked him for his trouble, but he still seemed interested in finding a solution.

He decided to ask a few people if they had any jumper cables. His intensity was contagious. I even flagged down a motorist heading toward the highway and asked if he had cables. He got out, searched his car, then apologized for not being able to help.

Altruism was in the air. My friend, whose name I never did learn, exhausted virtually every possibility to help me solve the mystery of my dead engine. I was so moved by his willingness to help, I decided to give it one more try. He got behind the car, I shifted into second gear and we annointed our final try with a thumbs-up sign.

I closed my eyes, shoved the clutch in and quickly let fly. The engine started up immediately and my friend merely waved goodbye. I waved back, but it didn't seem to be enough.

That's when I felt a twinge of regret, a pale shade of blue. I was so intent on making it back onto the highway I didn't think to turn around and thank him for such a warm show of goodwill.

Perhaps he didn't need to be thanked. We both knew what he did. He defined what it meant to be American on a weekend designed to celebrate that very thing.

~Bill Heitland is a staff writer for the Southeast Missourian.