[Rachelsdad]

I am reminded (somehow) of an experience I had with my first wife when were in college, before we were married.

She drove a '75 VW, with (of course) a 3-speed manual transmission.

One day, her battery died. We were in one car that day, and happened to be the last of our group of friends up at that end of campus that evening (read: nobody on hand for a jump).

"No problem," I told her. "We're at the top of the hill. All I need to do is give you enough of a push to get rolling downhill."

She was on board with the plan, and didn't ask me any questions. I ass-u-med that anyone who drove a stick knew that the car could be push started, and how that could be accomplished (and I drove my '63 Bonneville with a Hydramatic, and I knew that, even at the ripe old age of 19).

So, she got in the car, I got behind it, and I pushed (hey, it was just a Bug; you don't have to be Charles Atlas to push a Bug). She got to the edge of the downward slope, and started rolling. She rolled and rolled and rolled...all the way down the hill...and stopped.

Huffing and puffing from running down after her (I had anticipated her coming back up to fetch me - after she popped the clutch), I caught up to her, and said, "what happened when you let off the clutch?"

Silence.

Beat.

"Well?" I said, still catching my breath.

"You didn't tell me to let off the clutch!"

Oy, vey.

Epilogue: I proceeded to push the car (level ground) about a hundred feet or so. She popped the clutch, and the car started. We went to Sears and got a battery.

What can one say?