My Lucky Day

............................... Bell's Garage in Earlier Days *

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If you’ve ever been in an accident, you know the sound: the smashing crunch of metal on metal. The lucky ones among us get out of the car upset but not hurt, and then forever hold that sound in memory. For me it’s been three slight fender-benders spaced over about 45 years of driving.

Lately I’ve had a reoccurring fear of that crunching sound that is somehow unexpectedly stimulated while I’m driving, perhaps caused by the sudden realization that I’m day-dreaming or not focused sharply enough on the activity at hand. I shudder as my eyes open wider and quickly look out for the imagined other vehicle. I wince in expectation of the smashing crunch. So far it hasn’t happened, and I’m left wondering why this strange fear is asserting itself. My experiences being minor collisions, I wonder how people who have had really serious wrecks react to it.

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Maybe my imaginings are being sparked by an incident that happened about a year ago. As I loaded my groceries into the back seat, I heard that unmistakable sound as three cars tangled up in a – fortunately – low speed wreck in the entry to the shopping center lot. No one was hurt, and so it was apparently just another case for the insurance companies and local body shop folks to wrangle over. I can think of no other possible trigger for my current paranoia.

Today I drove my old pick-up truck to town, planning to pick up some lumber and saw-horses from my son-in-law, a chair I’d bought, groceries and garden supplies. My to-do list was long and involved a number of places on all sides of the village we call “town". It was a stop and go day.

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By early afternoon I’d crossed off several things on my list. Taking the lane behind the Main St. buildings, I swung into the local fast-food restaurant for a bathroom stop, stepped on the brakes, and didn’t stop. The pedal went to the floor, but the truck maintained every bit of its speed. I saw a vacant parking spot and aimed for it, bouncing backward when the tires hit the concrete curb that defines the lot’s perimeter.

I sat there in my truck. I thought of the people I’d stopped for in crosswalks that morning, of the car I waited behind at the red light, of the trip a few days earlier carrying a full load of shredded bark mulch out the hilly back roads to my house. And then I went inside to tell the restaurant owner that my truck might be in her lot for a while.

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There are two garages within walking distance of downtown, so I bought a bottle of water and hit the sidewalks. Tonight my truck sits at Bell’s Riverside Garage and I sit at home, thankful that my brakes failed at probably the best possible time and place, thankful that the only consequences are towing and repair bills. I guess it was my lucky day.

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* As I waited for the wrecker to deliver my truck, I noticed this framed photo of the garage and snapped a copy of it.

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