“Polly Prius” was the first car I ever purchased brand-spanking new. I vowed to read the 636-page operating manual that arrived with Polly from her trans-Pacific Ocean trip from Japan.
It wasn’t until a few years later, when the dashboard lights flashed a maintenance issue, that I scrambled and looked up the engine icon in the diagnostic section of the manual.
I have yet to read any more of that manual.
When a crisis happens, I tend to hurriedly flip through the Bible for answers. But…
