Peggy Dover

I rarely go to movies anymore. They’re too full of explosions and scary faces. I see enough deception on Facebook.

But last night, a fellow music lover and I watched “A Complete Unknown,” the biopic about Bob Dylan. It was my second time seeing it because, though I seldom go, a movie that makes its way beyond CGI boundaries and into some semblance of life has become a novelty.

Timothée Chalamet did an excellent job portraying Bob Dylan, a national music legend and the only musician-songwriter ever to have won the Nobel Prize in Literature (2016). Chalamet sounded authentically like Bob Dylan. Was it dubbed? The answer is no.

Though just a wee lass during those times that were a-changin,’ when folk music took root in the hearts of frustrated citizens, I grew up listening to the music. I liked his tunes but I didn’t know why — still don’t.

The memories made me sentimental — certainly not for the tumult of the times, but for my family and for long-ago nights of falling asleep with a transistor radio snuggled next to my ear, a coming-of-age transition from a teddy bear.

Except for car models, gritty New York City hasn’t changed much. The street music feeding the muse that fed Bobby seemed a part of the score. Edward Norton played an endearing Pete Seeger, whom I don’t recall well but remember hearing his name and seeing him somewhere on television. He, Woody Guthrie, and many others inspired Dylan and provided opportunity for him to share the music that he didn’t want labeled.

Two love interests appeared onscreen — Sylvie, representing his first serious girlfriend, played by Elle Fanning, and Monica Barbaro as Joan Baez. And, of course, there were managers, agents, tour promoters and other crocodilian types snapping over the monetary dish while ignoring the answers blowin’ in the wind. They sought to harness it, rather.

My friends and I came out each time glad we had gone.

Then, last night, Lane and I got in our respective cars and Giovanni the Honda made a scene. He rebelled like a 1960s university student at a sit-in. My normally valiant ride — always at the ready with a push of a button — not only would not start, but turned into a tantrum on wheels. He demonstrated a wildness unbeknownst to me. Various lights flashed frightening messages about compromised braking and anti-skid systems on the eve of destruction.

My engine light glared red. Though I’d turned Giovanni’s headlights off, they glowed in the dark, indifferent to my controls, then went out, then blinked to life again. Finally, he gasped out his last and went dark. What’s a parent to do.

Lane was a pal and stuck by me while I waited for the towing service sent by AAA — for an hour. The dispatcher had mistaken “Tinseltown” for “Natural Grocers,” understandable since they sound so much alike.

The driver struggled to raise poor Giovanni high enough for safe transport to my house and was ready to call for a flatbed tow, so Lane drove me home and I abandoned my car to a novice stranger against my better judgement. They pulled up not long after I’d gotten home, and I dreaded phoning Lithia.

The next day, I dug out my extended warranty paperwork and readied myself for whatever diagnosis might lie ahead. I phoned Lithia’s service department and described the melodramatic scene. He was sure it was the battery. *sigh* Giovanni was gasping for juice!

All that drama for a fresh start — like a new year.

The guy said they light up like a Christmas tree when the complex electronics system doesn’t get what it needs. We have something in common.

So, Dalton, the Triple A battery guy came out and made the switch to the tune of $199. Giovanni fired to life, ready for adventure.

He is dirty and needs vacuuming. I feel like a neglectful owner who could have saved us both heartaches. Giovanni was knockin’ on Heaven’s door, but don’t think twice it’s alright.

May the fog lift soon for those of us in the lowlands.