By: Angela Gillaspie © 2000-2010 All Rights Reserved

Several years ago, on our way to my oldest son Josh's flag football game, our newly paid off minivan's transmission died. With my husband Paul pushing, we got the minivan over to the side of the road.

After waiting on the roadside for two pleasurable hours of family togetherness, a friend rescued us. The next day, Paul rented a new minivan complete with all the bells and whistles.

Dropping our other son Nick off at preschool the following Monday, I was in awe at the dual climate controls, bucket seats and all those glorious buttons. Man, what a machine! I could press a button on the key ring and lock all the doors, plus I could press another button to unlock the doors before all my kids could whine about how long it took me to unlock the car. There was even a panic button that I could use to embarrass the kids in public!

Our old minivan wasn't going to be ready in time for us to make the four-hour jaunt over to Georgia to visit my parents for Thanksgiving, so we rented the new minivan for another week and drove it to Georgia.

We were making great time, only having to stop once. We got a burger for Paul, took all the kids to the bathroom and then gassed up the minivan. That's when things got ugly. Paul began pumping the gas while the kids argued over the pronunciation of the word 'three.'

"Thhh-reee!"

"F-f-frrreee!"

"Thhh-reee, dufus."

"F-f-frrreee!"

A station wagon over-flowing with tattooed and pierced teenagers pulled up beside us and I locked the doors. Paul reached over to open the locked door and the lights began flashing and the horn blew. I unlocked the doors and grabbed the keys out of the ignition, and pushed buttons. Finally, I pressed the panic button twice and the blaring horn and flashing lights stopped. I looked up at the hotel across the street and saw a gorilla-sized man peering out of a window with his hands on his hips.

Paul paid for the gas, walked back to the car and when he opened the door, the alarm went off again. I pressed the panic twice again, shutting off the alarm. The kids were helpful as usual ...

"Make it stop!"

"It went off cuz you farted!"

"I did not, it went off cuz you are so stupid!"

"Momma, she called me stupid!"

"Y'all hush and don't say 'fart'," Paul grunted in agreement as he gulped down his cheeseburger.

He finished and then tried to start the minivan; it died while the horn blasted and the lights flashed. I clawed at the glove compartment looking for the owner's manual and found several insurance papers and a chewed straw. So there we were, trapped in a rental minivan with three arguing kids in the middle of Gadsden, Alabama and no owner's manual in sight.

Gorilla Man looked as if he would burst through his third story window and whip our collective butts. I thought of parading my defenseless (yeah right) children in front of our minivan, hoping that he might feel sorry for our unfortunate family of five trapped at a Chevron in 30-degree weather (plus I hoped it might deter him from killing us all).

The alarm went off and Gorilla Man appeared in his steamed up hotel window every time we opened a door or tried to start the car. Paul called the emergency roadside service, and I got out of the car and paced. Paul cupped his hand over the phone, "This guy wants to tow it ten miles away to a Chrysler dealership!"

Oh now there was a good idea. We could just bundle the kids up and hitchhike to Chattanooga - hopefully Gorilla Man wouldn't run us over.

Paul continued the search for someone that could guide him how to shut off the alarm. Eventually after twenty minutes or so of the car going off, Gorilla Man glaring at us and heartfelt prayers for Jesus to deliver us from the bonds of this rental minivan, Paul received some instructions on how to shut that daggum alarm off.

He slid the key in the passenger side door and turned the key several different ways and the noise stopped! He started the car and there were no horns! Glorious silence - well, except for the kids.

We still don't know what we did to set the alarm off, but I had to sign a form promising to never lock the doors while Paul is pumping gas again.

Stay tuned for more SouthernAngel stories!