''I had an accident with the car!'' wailed Aunt Dee, calling me from California at midnight New York time.

''What happened?'' I asked, trying to sound awake.

''I was waiting in the left turn lane for the light to change so I could make a left turn, and some idiot banged into my right side. I guess she wanted to make a left turn too, and thought I should move out of her way."

''Were you hurt?'' I asked.

''No, but there's a big ding-dong on the door; I can't open it. And the front fender is dented. The police came and interviewed me as if I was to blame.''

''Did you call your insurance agent?'' I inquired.

''That's another thing. Every year my insurance premiums go up because my car is older. And now they tell me they can't give me much money to get it fixed because my car is 12 years old. Isn't that age discrimination? I'll have to pay most of the lots of money the fixer wants.''

''Maybe you should trade your car in and get a new one,'' I suggested.

''That's what the insurance man said, too. I should trade in my sweet little car?'' she screamed. ''Where would I get one like it? They don't make them any more. Should I trade in my Leah, or my David, or my Sherry because they're getting older? Should they trade me in for a newer model because my hair is fading and my bones creak?''

''Certainly not,'' I agreed. ''Have the car fixed by all means.''

''I knew you'd see it my way,'' said Aunt Dee. ''Not like that mean insurance agent.''