17 miles to empty.

You have to love today’s vehicles and all their fancy features. It wasn’t so long ago I upgraded to electric locks and windows. I can’t help it; I’m skeptical of something powered by a battery. A crank window doesn’t die and anybody can push and pull a door lock.
I now like the “convenience” of sliding doors that open with a push of a button on my key chain — especially when my arms are loaded with groceries.
I don’t like the “nag” bell, that chimes annoyingly every 30 seconds when I neglect to buckle my seat belt. Okay, okay, I’m buckling up.
This week I discovered another nifty feature that scared me, helped me, amazed me.
I had an appointment in Grand Forks and I was running late — as usual. I pulled onto the interstate at Hillsboro and headed north, racing to meet my deadline.
About seven miles down the road, an unfamiliar ding-dong sound alerted me. A message on the control panel warned me “low fuel level.”
How low, I wondered? The next message answered my question — “42 miles to empty.”
How many miles to Grand Forks? I asked no one in particular.
“40 miles to empty.”
Should I start to panic now?
Later?
Worrying would be wasted energy, I reasoned.
“38 miles to empty.”
A couple more ding-dongs.
I pulled off at Buxton and in search of a gas pump with regular unleaded but to no avail.
I just wasted two miles.
“33 miles to empty.”
Okay, I should make it Grand Forks, right? No need to worry about pulling up short outside of town, within sight of the giant truck stop.
The last time I ran out of gas I was in high school and I was four miles from home. My mom was in the passenger seat of the blue Catalina. We limped into Solee’s driveway and begged a couple gallons of gas off Ellen. I didn’t confess my error to Dad but a couple of days later he reminded me — in an off-hand sort of way — that drivers are responsible for reading all gauges.
“Gotcha, Dad.”
So there I was ready to come up dry along the roadside again — this time with fair warning, thanks to the cool electronic feature on my mighty Windstar minivan.
“23 miles to empty.”
I’m going to make it. The wind is at my back; I’ll coast in.
That off ramp is uphill, isn’t it? What if I stall right there on 32nd Avenue, block traffic and miss my appointment.
Drivers are responsible for reading all gauges.
Yes, Dad.
“18 miles to empty.”
I pulled into the Conoco station, reciting my 15th Hail Mary.
The Windstar was eventually satisfied with 23.38 gallons of regular unleaded.
“519 miles to empty.”
One giant sign of relief.