James and I took the road less traveled. Ice covered? No problem. I’ve driven on ice for nearly five decades. Keep your head, and it’ll be beautiful, like that snow-covered, January afternoon. Just fine.
Except it wasn’t.
We followed our normal Sunday after-church routine and drove to the library, but the ice held a treacherous glaze. Impossible to detect before we encountered it. We sailed down the road. Sideways. I tried every technique I knew as the seconds ticked by in slow motion. Nothing worked and we slammed into a road sign, then slid off the road into a shallow ravine.
“James, are you all right?” We didn’t roll, the air bag didn’t deploy and we’d stopped less than inches from a large tree.
“Yes.”
He’d answered in his usual, formal style of speech and I relaxed.
“Dad? What happened?”
“We hit some ice and slid off the road. Are you sure you’re okay?”
“Yes. Of course, I’m sure.”
I breathed another sigh of relief. Not even bumps or bruises.
Four hours and two wreckers later, our small and battered SUV was back on the road. Body damage totaled the car, but everything else worked, clear down to the electric windows. I was able to drive it and followed a longer route home, clean and dry.
But the impact was greater than dented metal.
The next Sunday, we gathered with our congregants for some coffee and pastries after the service. James approached the group of men where I sat and interrupted the conversation.
“Last Sunday, my dad hit some ice on the way to the library.” The men fell silent and turned to James. “Our car turned sideways and we slid off the road, down into the Gorge of Death.”
I wonder if he’ll grow up to be a writer.