Reporter's Note: President Barack Obama has indicated that he likes hearing from average Americans. I like doughnuts; so each day I write a letter to the White House and then swing by the Krispy Kreme making both of us happy! (Well, ok, so I don’t eat doughnuts every day but I do write the letters.)

Tom Foreman | Bio
AC360° Correspondent

Dear Mr. President,

Congratulate me, I just fixed our Miata! We bought it used 17 years ago, and used it as a primary “get around town” car for quite a while, including some absolutely mind-blowing commutes through Colorado blizzards, but as the girls grew older it was pushed to the back of the garage and now we take it out only in warm weather. (Which, oddly enough, is pretty much the treatment I expect of my own retirement years if I ever get there.)

Anyway, the battery died after a long winter of non-use. We tried to jumpstart it; but that not only failed, it actually made the situation worse. “How could that be?” you may ask. Fair question, and one that vexed us too. See, after we figured out that the battery was dead as a hammer, we went out and bought a new one only to find that the car still sat there as stubbornly as New Gingrich on a beach chair. No lights. No annoying little “your key is in the ignition” buzzer. No clicking. No humming. Nada por nada.

When I was a teenager and pounding away at a balky engine under the hood of our Chevy or Rambler, (Yes, we had a Rambler…jealous?) this was usually the point at which my dad would say, “Ah ha…so that’s not working. Let’s see what’s going on here.” Then he would start following the chain of cause-and-effect that produces the fundamental magic of an internal combustion engine, and a step at a time we would isolate, surround, and conquer the trouble spot; taking it down with scraped knuckles, greasy fingers, and strained backs. (Techniques I would later employ in a spectacular math class fight against the ever combative Bill Fleshy.) Sometimes we would grind on into the twilight, pulling a flashlight into the picture to aid in our battle.

So I started doing basically the same thing, with my father’s ghost no doubt hovering near; following the power lines from the battery (in the trunk in a Miata) to the engine compartment; wiggling wires, scrutinizing connections, puzzling over grimy components and wondering what precisely they do… or in this case, did not do. I opened up the fuse box under the hood, and initially saw nothing wrong, but then after stringing a worklight in the gloom of the garage, I glimpsed…and I must say it seemed purely by chance… what appeared to be a tiny gap in the top of a big fuse.

Quickly calling my wife to the cause, I asked her to turn the key. I gingerly lowered the tip of a screwdriver into the apparent fissure, and voila: the broken connection was healed, the windshield wipers flapped, the interior lights blinked on, and the buzzer sang out like Amy Winehouse on a bender. The Internet (now that I knew what to ask about) informed me that I had likely blown the fuse by trying to jump the car with a much larger engine. So a quick trip to the parts store, and $3.17 later, a new fuse was snapped into place, and the car was purring.

I have no idea why I am telling you this, but in the midst of all of our nation’s economic woes, it struck me as interesting. I could have had the car towed, and paid a couple hundred bucks to have someone else figure out what was wrong. Probably that would have been better for the economy overall, and my bleeding right thumb would feel better for it. But for my family’s personal economy, this was a good day; a tiny victory, and a bit of good news amid all the bad.

Call if you get a moment and I’ll give you the play by play. You know how guys like to do that. As it is, my wife and daughters have endured my self-congratulatory grinning all evening. I may even sleep that way, just to drive them crazy.

Regards,

Tom

Find more of the Foreman Letters, here.