If I do say so myself, Pop is a purty dang good driver. Heck, he’s even been trained by the government on how to do weird maneuvers. But back when he was a pup with the ink on his license still damp, he durn near met Jesus face to face. Here’s how I heard him tell the story…
“It was the summer of 1971. I was 16 ½ and had the good fortune of an uncle who worked for the Standard Oil Company. They routinely got rid of their company cars once a certain age or mileage was reached, and dad had told Uncle Howard I needed a car for my paper route. Good ol’ Uncle Howard came through and found me a 1960 Chevy sedan for a few hundred bucks. It was an awful industrial green color, but that didn’t matter. I had the newfound freedom of my very own wheels.
I threw papers in the wee hours every morning, seven days a week, and worked at McDonald’s in the evenings. My hard-earned bank account was being stockpiled for the eventuality of putting myself through college.
Now having a conveyance and the means to get around miles at a time, one hot afternoon, a buddy and I decided we’d head to the local quarry for a swim. It was isolated a few miles out of town, and we were the only ones there taking advantage of the cold, clear water. After a bit we started home, which was followed shortly thereafter by what was arguably my first stupid attack.
Being the only vehicle on a long stretch of dirt and gravel road at dusk, I just kept applying more and more accelerator just to see how fast I could make that Chevy go. I was even more emboldened when I noticed out of the corner of my eye that my buddy was getting a little white knuckled. But neither of us was gonna wince first and express the common sense that maybe we ought to slow down.
It isn’t hard to figure that what would ensue was this idiotic young and inexperienced driver with his hands on the wheel and his hair on fire would eventually reach a speed whereby he lost control and became a passenger. That Chevy veered to the right and I hung on for dear life as we rolled over sideways at least a couple of times. How many exactly, I have no idea. All I know is that when the dust settled, as did the car in an upright position, I had gripped the gear shift handle so hard I bent it nearly 45 degrees. I asked my buddy if he was okay and, with the exception of him having a sore knee, we were both relatively unscathed.
My next thought, among a few hundred others racing through my adrenaline-pumped head, was what in the world I was gonna tell my dad, who I knew would be furious. Jerry and I looked at the mess I’d made and set out afoot for home. Once we reached the paved road, we managed to hitchhike back to town, where we swore each other to secrecy and parted ways. I ended up at McDonald’s, where I called dad and told him I needed a ride. I concocted a ridiculous story about going inside with my buddy while leaving the motor running and coming out only to find my car was gone. Dad called the cops and reported it stolen.
The next morning, I was a little stiff but miraculously without a scratch. Early that day we got a call from the Highway Patrol indicating they’d found the car. Dad arranged to get it towed to a local garage, which quickly deduced it was totaled due to a bent crossbeam. Dad never suspected a thing, and I never fessed up to what actually happened. I kept and still have the ignition key to that car as a reminder of my stupidity.
So, I was back to being afoot until a couple of years later when Uncle Howard once again found me a cheap surplus company car. This time it was a Ford Galaxy sedan that same awful industrial green color.
I’ve occasionally reflected at night as I drifted off to sleep as to why the good Lord chose to spare Jerry and me that evening. Nobody wore seat belts back then, and as I recall, neither of us was strapped in. The only explanation I’ve ever come up with was that He wasn’t done with me yet. Divine intervention was not yet in my vocabulary, but an older, wiser me eventually figured it out. It wasn’t the last time He would save me.”
I sure am glad the good Lord was lookin’ out for Pop. And I know the next time I hop into my seat in the Yukon to head for the grain mill, I’ll be safe as a papoose.