Gremlins were the live and let live types until their real estate and homeland was razed and an airplane manufacturing operation made them homeless and mad.

The British and the Germans got crossways with one another back in the thirties and the Brits didn’t do a credible job when they did the title search.  The Gremlin tribe were ousted and had to nest under railroad and highway bridges as they brooded.  The Warfare Council held an emergency session and diplomacy was ruled out as a suitable cure of the problem.  So they decided that an army of Gremlin Volunteers would declare war on the RAF.  The “yeas” approved and the Royal Air Force was the dot in the bull’s eye.

The male of the species are all named Gremlin, the wife mates are Fifinellas while the offspring fell into the classification of Widgets.  They sprang to life smack out of the mind of Roald Dahl of ruddy old England, who was a member of the Royal Air Force.

Once the little folk began their crusade against the RAF all manner of electrical and mechanical malfunctions began to occur and the Gremlins were not only held accountable—they took full credit.

Gus, a fully grown human being (probably airman Rold Dahl) managed to make peace with the little guys and they swung their loyalty over to the Brits and did their devilment upon Hitler’s Luftwaffe.

Anyways, what brought this folklore back to mind was an experience that was imposed upon me in the near past.  I had journeyed to Rising Star for a visit and a bank of clouds down San Angelo way were looking a tad ominous.

When I had visited until my welcome had waned I was pelted by bird egg drops of compressed humidity as I dashed to my conveyance.  Driving in rain storms is a chancy proposition, and a thing to be avoided in my opinion, so I sat until the leading edge of the deluge cleared the city limits before heading for De Leon.  My windshield wipers chose the occasion to quit functioning.

My windshield wipers refused to function but I figured that it was safe to follow the belt of rain at a respectable distance.  Unfortunately I caught up hear Sipe Springs, and had to pull off and practice my patience until the front moved on and provided more elbow room.  Vainly I fiddled with the wiper control, but to no avail.

A glance at my fuel gauge added to my grief.  The “Buy More Fuel” icon was lit up like a Christmas tree and since I had no idea how long it had been showing it was just another depressing sight to behold.  I’ll admit to a mild expletive.

With a dread filled mind and a heavy heart I tailed the heavy rain until Duster became my next stop.  The wipers that didn’t wipe and the low fuel gauge both mocked me as I bided my time and repented for tacky things I’ve done in my lifetime.  The Gremlins, I reflected, had a firm grip on my destiny.

The next increment of my trip allowed me to park beneath my home carport and I reverently gave a “much obliged” to all the deities I’m acquainted with, and scoffed at the failed Gremlins.

Next morning I proceeded with caution to the petrol supplier, and it was mostly on fumes I suppose, but I made it.  The price of gasoline is forgivable when you ain’t got any, so I tanked up without voicing any complaint.

I paid out and found my way back to my vehicle just as the rain began to succumb to gravity, buckled up and hit the wiper switch.  And they went into action.

There is no way I can fully understand my experience, but the most logical explanation seems to be that my car’s wipers run on gasoline.

Let me hear from you.

My phone number is 254-893-5063.

My postal address is 333 W. Ayers, De Leon TX 76444.

You can e-mail me at Charles@CharlesChupp.com.