I am rapidly knocking on wood as I write these words, “I have never been in a car accident of any magnitude and I pray to God I never am.” These powerful machines have become an absolute necessity in our lives. We polish them. License them. Change the oil. Register and re-register them. Insure them. Eat in them. Wax them. Sleep in them. Argue in them. Laugh in them. Cry in them. And sometimes, we live in them.
They can be sleek and aerodynamic or drab and functional. Some of them are more costly than homes. We can choose a limited edition or a cookie cutter model. They come in the form of sedans, sports utility vehicles, pick-ups, work trucks and convertibles. They are pawns in divorce and bait for good grades. From the time an automobile rolls off the assembly line until it becomes little more than an awkward cube of sheet metal, the money spent to sustain it is astronomical. They can bring us great contentment and they can literally be the cause of our death.
My phone rang at about 1:30 p.m. one recent Monday, and it was my sister. “Hi, what are you doing?” she asked. “I’m cleaning the bathroom,” I said. She took a deep breath. “Now, before I begin, I want you to know I am standing in the kitchen and I am OK, but Sophie died.” I ran a quick inventory in my mind of the names of her “girls.” Let’s see, there is Stella, the steel gray feline. Daphne, the sort-of-money-cat with the puppy personality. And then, there is baby Olive, the Poodle/Shih-tzu/Pomeranian mix. Who is Sophie? My befuddled mind kicked in at last. Sophie is her 2003, sleepy blue, Dodge Stratus. Sophie is her car.
I screeched, “What?” She sighed. “Yup, Sophie died. I’m OK, though. Remember, I’m OK.” I sat down on the edge of the bathtub, my hands shaking and my heart dancing the polka in my chest. “Are you sure you are OK?” I began breathing again. “Yup,” she said. My sister is calm like my father. I am more of a six-lane highway.
Simply stated, my sister got lost in a snowdrift and hit from behind. The car is totaled but my sister and the others involved are intact, healthy, and undeniably lucky. Those of us who love them are on our knees with gratitude. For the past few days we have been discussing replacement cars, old fashioned snowstorms and guardian angels; the kind of angels who place themselves between you and the steel grill of a pickup.
Regardless of precision performance cars and superb road cleanup, Old Man Winter and Mother Nature are still very much in charge, and in reality, we are helpless behind that wheel. I am counting my blessings today and remembering those broken hearts who mourn the loss of a loved one. There is no job and no event that warrants placing ourselves on a treacherous road in the midst of a blizzard; or any type of storm. In honor of the beloved souls who do not walk away from an accident, let’s take good care of ourselves — and each other.
Editor’s Note: Belinda Wilcox Ouellette lives Connor TWP with her husband Dale and their Goldendoodle Barney. They are currently working on building a home in Caribou. You may contact Belinda online at: dbwouellette@maine.rr.com.
