| Humor Non-Fiction posted May 11, 2009 |
  |
Contest Entry: Who says cars don't have feelings?
Just My Luck
by Mrs. KT
My son and daughter still refer to it as "The Day Mom Almost Brought the House Down."
My husband remembers it as "The Day My Wife Defied Physics."
I, however, will always recall November 9, 2001 as the day I survived an unplanned date with Lady Luck and came out on the winning side of her favor in spite of the fact that I should have lost ... big time ... in more ways than one:
Now I would be the first to admit that I am usually engaged in doing three or four things at once. Sometimes, I am successful, like when I read, knit, and watch television simultaneously and can remember the plot line, never drop a stitch, and correctly answer the Daily Double question on Jeopardy!
But the morning of November 9, 2001 was not one of those times. On that morning, I was concentrating all of my energy on accomplishing only one task: ordering a "wow" outfit online from Coldwater Creek for my twenty-fifth high school class reunion.
A modest endeavor, right?
Wrong!
First of all, Friday, November 9, 2001, was a holiday--a free day from school for both teachers and students that marked the halfway point of the first semester of the school year. Since I taught in the same school district where my two teenage children attended school, all three of us were home that morning.
Both kids were still asleep at eight a.m., however, and I was sitting in my favorite bathrobe, relishing a third cup of coffee as I intently focused on rationalizing why I deserved to order the sparkly black velvet ensemble of my dreams. I know I was feeling more than a little guilty about my anticipated purchase because I distinctly remember jumping when the phone rang. And I was more than startled when the voice on the other end announced that the carpet cleaning crew I had scheduled back in October, "Just in time for the holidays," would be arriving in less than twenty minutes.
The carpet crew?
Twenty minutes?
I had totally forgotten they were coming that morning!
But, being the caring mom that I am, I didn't want to wake my daughter and ask her to move her vehicle just so Stanley Steamer could park in the space closest to the front sidewalk and have access to the front water faucet. My daughter needed to enjoy sleeping in past her usual wake up call of six a.m.
Well, at least that's what I told her and everyone else afterwards.
To be honest, as soon as I hung up the phone, I panicked. All I really wanted to do was to order the outfit before the cleaning crew arrived. Order it when I was alone with just my credit card. Order it before either one of my kids was awake. Order it when no one but me knew just how much it cost.
So, I decided to do the selfless thing and move my daughter's car myself.
Huge mistake!
My daughter had newly acquired her first car, a 1991 Olds '88-- a behemoth of a vehicle if ever there was one--only one month earlier. The thing was a tank, which was why my husband had bought it for her in the first place: "It's just what a young girl needs to navigate hazardous northern Michigan roads in the winter."
My daughter loved her car; I didn't. If I could have, I would have taken a wrecking ball to it the minute it started to leak islands of oil on our driveway one day after its arrival.
Furthermore, I disliked its color, its size, and its temperament; the darn thing always seemed to stall or jerk when I was behind the wheel. But my real distaste for it had to do with the fact that with my lack of depth perception, I had a heck of a time maneuvering it around other vehicles or parking it in our garage on the few occasions I had been asked to do so.
And I was especially not fond of it on the morning of November 9, 2001, as it sat like an immovable lump in our driveway with a glaze of sparkling frost on its windows.
But my window of opportunity to move that blasted hunk of steel and order the outfit was quickly closing if I was to get both accomplished before the cleaning crew arrived.
To this day, I am convinced that my daughter's car sensed my hostility. Still dressed in my worn bathrobe and slippers, I struggled unlocking the driver's door in the cold morning air. Once seated, I put the key into the ignition. The fact that the starter made an unusual hiccupping sound didn't faze me. "Typical," I remember muttering. "I'm the one that's freezing out here! And you don't hear me hiccupping!"
Of course, the defroster wouldn't work. Oh, sure, a lot of hot air was blowing, but it wasn't from that car's defroster! And forget about locating an ice scraper amid my daughter's various basketballs and athletic bags; that would have been too easy!
So, with about ten minutes to go before the crew was scheduled to arrive, I rolled down the windows, peered through the minute circle of clear glass now visible on the front window, and decided I could easily maneuver that junk heap to its rightful place on the other side of our driveway with or without a clear view.
I put the car in reverse. Backed it up a bit. Turned the wheel to the right. Swerved a little. No problem. Inched the car's rear end to the right side of the driveway--over to where it belonged. Straightened the wheel. Applied the brakes. Turned the wheel to the left. Straightened the wheel again. Drove slowly ahead. So far, so good. Realized my front end should be a little closer to the garage door. Lightly touched the accelerator before hitting the brakes again.
And then ... and then ... all hell broke loose.
In slow motion I watched myself drive that Satanic vehicle right through the garage's four paneled door, past my own vehicle neatly parked in the opposite stall, past the snow blower, lawn mower, two bicycles and garbage pails and come to a jerking halt nose to nose with the wall which housed our family room on its other side.
The entire garage shuddered and heaved when I plowed my way through, but not one thing was touched or harmed with the exception of the garage door, which from my vantage point had disappeared completely, and of course, the front end and window of my daughter's blasted car.
And what did I do?
I just sat there, totally amazed at the amount of sparkling glass that had shattered all around me, but for some unexplainable reason had avoided landing anywhere on my person. Not one shard.
I remember thinking, "Well, I got myself in this mess; I had better get myself out of it."
So ... I put the car in reverse and proceeded to back out of the garage. In doing so, I really did another huge number on the hood of the car because the missing garage door was on top of it!
Once outside, I gingerly opened the door and slowly stepped out to view the rest of the damages.
By this time I had visitors: both of my children and our Golden Retriever were standing in the driveway. The kids were wide awake and speechless; the dog was cowering with his tail between his legs.
And of course, from the safety of their shiny yellow Stanley Steamer van, seemingly frozen at the edge of the driveway, was my two-man cleaning crew who had arrived just as I was plowing through the garage door.
Within seconds one of the men was running towards me, arms flailing and head shaking as he exclaimed, "Jesus Christ lady! I ain't never seen nothin' like that in my whole damned life! Honest to God! I ain't never!"
My children, still shocked, echoed his sentiments sharing that they thought a bomb had exploded because the entire upstairs had shaken.
As for me, I turned to one and all, smiled weakly, and said somewhat sarcastically, "Well, now, I do believe that is enough excitement for the morning. If you don't mind, let's get those carpets cleaned " 'Just in time for the holidays!' "
"But lady," the discombobulated carpet cleaning man interjected. "Whad'ya gonna do about the garage door? It's just sorta hangin' there."
We all turned towards the garage. And sure enough, the garage door was "sorta hangin' there" no longer on top of the car, but suspended from the ceiling on its upper tracks. Apparently, I hadn't gone through the garage door; instead, I had wedged all four panels up on one another upon impact.
I wanted to glibly turn and say in my best Scarlet O'Hara impersonation, "Well, Rhett, I'll just think about that tomorrow." But I knew I had to call my husband as soon as possible and attempt to explain to him what had happened.
My husband is a structural engineer. He also happens to be very kindhearted and patient unless he is terribly busy or something just doesn't make any sense to him. He was reached easily enough on the phone a few moments later. But the conversation that ensued made no sense to him whatsoever, and today, eight years later, the content of it is still highly debated in our household:
"Hey, Lar."
"What's up?"
"Well, not much except that I drove Rachel's car through the garage door a few moments ago."
"You what?"
"I said I drove Rachel's car through the garage door."
"No you didn't."
"What do you mean, 'No you didn't?' I did too! I drove that damn car through the garage door. The front window is smashed and the hood and the top of the car are really scraped."
"That doesn't make any sense. You would be defying physics for you to have done what you just said you did."
"Okay, buster. Have it your way. But I'm standing in the driveway in my robe and slippers. Rachel's car has no front window. Her front end is smooched. And the garage door looks like it is now part of the garage ceiling!"
"I still don't get it. What about the supporting column in the garage? The one that supports the entire roof? Did you miss that? Is that still there? Because if that's not there, we're in big trouble."
"Larry! If that column wasn't still there, I wouldn't still be here! Are you going to analyze what happened over the phone or are you going to ask me if I'm okay?"
"Are you okay?"
"That doesn't sound very convincing. Yes! I'm okay. Just please come home before something else happens."
"Diane! It is virtually impossible for you to have done what you just said you did!"
"Maybe so, but you've got to come home and see for yourself."
<<<~~~>>>
Apparently, what I had failed to tell my beloved husband, and what I learned later, is that when I initially plowed through the garage, the bottom panel of the garage door had folded onto the second panel, the second panel onto the third and so forth. All four panels had "pancaked" because upon impact, I had popped the two main bolts supporting the guide rails. One bolt was found thirty feet away having traveled over my car and eventually rested by the kitchen door; the other traveled the same distance but ended up on the other side of the garage by a side door.
But the most crucial part of my escapade that morning, according to my husband's calculations, was that by sheer luck I had missed demolishing the center column that holds up the entire garage by a mere inch. One inch further, and I would have been a goner. No more holidays. No more cleaned carpets. No more sparkly outfits ... ever.
All of this was explained to me by my husband later that afternoon. After he had calmed down. After the cleaning crew departed. After the car insurance people were contacted. After my children were assured their home and mother were still both connected and stable. After the dog was no longer cowering. After my husband disengaged the garage door from its ceiling perch, found the main bolts, and somehow got everything working again. After I ordered my sparkly ensemble.
Yes, I did order it. And I wore it to my high school reunion with no feelings of guilt whatsoever. However, every time I moved a certain way, I would shed "sparkles." Yup, glittering sparkles flaked off the jacket when I moved or danced. Glittering sparkles that looked like little bits of broken glass ... Just my luck ... .
P.S.
As for my daughter's car ... Well, I never drove it again. Never once in the seven years that my daughter owned it did I even agree to ride in it. But it served my daughter well. In fact, on an ice-laden January morning in 2007, while my daughter was driving to her first day of student teaching in another northern Michigan town, that same car saved my daughter's life when the driver of a twelve-passenger van lost control and side-swiped Rachel's car sending it into a spin. That hit sent my daughter's vehicle into a major intersection where she was broad-sided by another vehicle. The car was totaled, but it saved her life ... just like her dad had promised all those years ago ... .
Our daughter's 1991 Olds '88 before that infamous November morning:
My son and daughter still refer to it as "The Day Mom Almost Brought the House Down."
My husband remembers it as "The Day My Wife Defied Physics."
I, however, will always recall November 9, 2001 as the day I survived an unplanned date with Lady Luck and came out on the winning side of her favor in spite of the fact that I should have lost ... big time ... in more ways than one:
Now I would be the first to admit that I am usually engaged in doing three or four things at once. Sometimes, I am successful, like when I read, knit, and watch television simultaneously and can remember the plot line, never drop a stitch, and correctly answer the Daily Double question on Jeopardy!
But the morning of November 9, 2001 was not one of those times. On that morning, I was concentrating all of my energy on accomplishing only one task: ordering a "wow" outfit online from Coldwater Creek for my twenty-fifth high school class reunion.
A modest endeavor, right?
Wrong!
First of all, Friday, November 9, 2001, was a holiday--a free day from school for both teachers and students that marked the halfway point of the first semester of the school year. Since I taught in the same school district where my two teenage children attended school, all three of us were home that morning.
Both kids were still asleep at eight a.m., however, and I was sitting in my favorite bathrobe, relishing a third cup of coffee as I intently focused on rationalizing why I deserved to order the sparkly black velvet ensemble of my dreams. I know I was feeling more than a little guilty about my anticipated purchase because I distinctly remember jumping when the phone rang. And I was more than startled when the voice on the other end announced that the carpet cleaning crew I had scheduled back in October, "Just in time for the holidays," would be arriving in less than twenty minutes.
The carpet crew?
Twenty minutes?
I had totally forgotten they were coming that morning!
But, being the caring mom that I am, I didn't want to wake my daughter and ask her to move her vehicle just so Stanley Steamer could park in the space closest to the front sidewalk and have access to the front water faucet. My daughter needed to enjoy sleeping in past her usual wake up call of six a.m.
Well, at least that's what I told her and everyone else afterwards.
To be honest, as soon as I hung up the phone, I panicked. All I really wanted to do was to order the outfit before the cleaning crew arrived. Order it when I was alone with just my credit card. Order it before either one of my kids was awake. Order it when no one but me knew just how much it cost.
So, I decided to do the selfless thing and move my daughter's car myself.
Huge mistake!
My daughter had newly acquired her first car, a 1991 Olds '88-- a behemoth of a vehicle if ever there was one--only one month earlier. The thing was a tank, which was why my husband had bought it for her in the first place: "It's just what a young girl needs to navigate hazardous northern Michigan roads in the winter."
My daughter loved her car; I didn't. If I could have, I would have taken a wrecking ball to it the minute it started to leak islands of oil on our driveway one day after its arrival.
Furthermore, I disliked its color, its size, and its temperament; the darn thing always seemed to stall or jerk when I was behind the wheel. But my real distaste for it had to do with the fact that with my lack of depth perception, I had a heck of a time maneuvering it around other vehicles or parking it in our garage on the few occasions I had been asked to do so.
And I was especially not fond of it on the morning of November 9, 2001, as it sat like an immovable lump in our driveway with a glaze of sparkling frost on its windows.
But my window of opportunity to move that blasted hunk of steel and order the outfit was quickly closing if I was to get both accomplished before the cleaning crew arrived.
To this day, I am convinced that my daughter's car sensed my hostility. Still dressed in my worn bathrobe and slippers, I struggled unlocking the driver's door in the cold morning air. Once seated, I put the key into the ignition. The fact that the starter made an unusual hiccupping sound didn't faze me. "Typical," I remember muttering. "I'm the one that's freezing out here! And you don't hear me hiccupping!"
Of course, the defroster wouldn't work. Oh, sure, a lot of hot air was blowing, but it wasn't from that car's defroster! And forget about locating an ice scraper amid my daughter's various basketballs and athletic bags; that would have been too easy!
So, with about ten minutes to go before the crew was scheduled to arrive, I rolled down the windows, peered through the minute circle of clear glass now visible on the front window, and decided I could easily maneuver that junk heap to its rightful place on the other side of our driveway with or without a clear view.
I put the car in reverse. Backed it up a bit. Turned the wheel to the right. Swerved a little. No problem. Inched the car's rear end to the right side of the driveway--over to where it belonged. Straightened the wheel. Applied the brakes. Turned the wheel to the left. Straightened the wheel again. Drove slowly ahead. So far, so good. Realized my front end should be a little closer to the garage door. Lightly touched the accelerator before hitting the brakes again.
And then ... and then ... all hell broke loose.
In slow motion I watched myself drive that Satanic vehicle right through the garage's four paneled door, past my own vehicle neatly parked in the opposite stall, past the snow blower, lawn mower, two bicycles and garbage pails and come to a jerking halt nose to nose with the wall which housed our family room on its other side.
The entire garage shuddered and heaved when I plowed my way through, but not one thing was touched or harmed with the exception of the garage door, which from my vantage point had disappeared completely, and of course, the front end and window of my daughter's blasted car.
And what did I do?
I just sat there, totally amazed at the amount of sparkling glass that had shattered all around me, but for some unexplainable reason had avoided landing anywhere on my person. Not one shard.
I remember thinking, "Well, I got myself in this mess; I had better get myself out of it."
So ... I put the car in reverse and proceeded to back out of the garage. In doing so, I really did another huge number on the hood of the car because the missing garage door was on top of it!
Once outside, I gingerly opened the door and slowly stepped out to view the rest of the damages.
By this time I had visitors: both of my children and our Golden Retriever were standing in the driveway. The kids were wide awake and speechless; the dog was cowering with his tail between his legs.
And of course, from the safety of their shiny yellow Stanley Steamer van, seemingly frozen at the edge of the driveway, was my two-man cleaning crew who had arrived just as I was plowing through the garage door.
Within seconds one of the men was running towards me, arms flailing and head shaking as he exclaimed, "Jesus Christ lady! I ain't never seen nothin' like that in my whole damned life! Honest to God! I ain't never!"
My children, still shocked, echoed his sentiments sharing that they thought a bomb had exploded because the entire upstairs had shaken.
As for me, I turned to one and all, smiled weakly, and said somewhat sarcastically, "Well, now, I do believe that is enough excitement for the morning. If you don't mind, let's get those carpets cleaned " 'Just in time for the holidays!' "
"But lady," the discombobulated carpet cleaning man interjected. "Whad'ya gonna do about the garage door? It's just sorta hangin' there."
We all turned towards the garage. And sure enough, the garage door was "sorta hangin' there" no longer on top of the car, but suspended from the ceiling on its upper tracks. Apparently, I hadn't gone through the garage door; instead, I had wedged all four panels up on one another upon impact.
I wanted to glibly turn and say in my best Scarlet O'Hara impersonation, "Well, Rhett, I'll just think about that tomorrow." But I knew I had to call my husband as soon as possible and attempt to explain to him what had happened.
My husband is a structural engineer. He also happens to be very kindhearted and patient unless he is terribly busy or something just doesn't make any sense to him. He was reached easily enough on the phone a few moments later. But the conversation that ensued made no sense to him whatsoever, and today, eight years later, the content of it is still highly debated in our household:
"Hey, Lar."
"What's up?"
"Well, not much except that I drove Rachel's car through the garage door a few moments ago."
"You what?"
"I said I drove Rachel's car through the garage door."
"No you didn't."
"What do you mean, 'No you didn't?' I did too! I drove that damn car through the garage door. The front window is smashed and the hood and the top of the car are really scraped."
"That doesn't make any sense. You would be defying physics for you to have done what you just said you did."
"Okay, buster. Have it your way. But I'm standing in the driveway in my robe and slippers. Rachel's car has no front window. Her front end is smooched. And the garage door looks like it is now part of the garage ceiling!"
"I still don't get it. What about the supporting column in the garage? The one that supports the entire roof? Did you miss that? Is that still there? Because if that's not there, we're in big trouble."
"Larry! If that column wasn't still there, I wouldn't still be here! Are you going to analyze what happened over the phone or are you going to ask me if I'm okay?"
"Are you okay?"
"That doesn't sound very convincing. Yes! I'm okay. Just please come home before something else happens."
"Diane! It is virtually impossible for you to have done what you just said you did!"
"Maybe so, but you've got to come home and see for yourself."
<<<~~~>>>
Apparently, what I had failed to tell my beloved husband, and what I learned later, is that when I initially plowed through the garage, the bottom panel of the garage door had folded onto the second panel, the second panel onto the third and so forth. All four panels had "pancaked" because upon impact, I had popped the two main bolts supporting the guide rails. One bolt was found thirty feet away having traveled over my car and eventually rested by the kitchen door; the other traveled the same distance but ended up on the other side of the garage by a side door.
But the most crucial part of my escapade that morning, according to my husband's calculations, was that by sheer luck I had missed demolishing the center column that holds up the entire garage by a mere inch. One inch further, and I would have been a goner. No more holidays. No more cleaned carpets. No more sparkly outfits ... ever.
All of this was explained to me by my husband later that afternoon. After he had calmed down. After the cleaning crew departed. After the car insurance people were contacted. After my children were assured their home and mother were still both connected and stable. After the dog was no longer cowering. After my husband disengaged the garage door from its ceiling perch, found the main bolts, and somehow got everything working again. After I ordered my sparkly ensemble.
Yes, I did order it. And I wore it to my high school reunion with no feelings of guilt whatsoever. However, every time I moved a certain way, I would shed "sparkles." Yup, glittering sparkles flaked off the jacket when I moved or danced. Glittering sparkles that looked like little bits of broken glass ... Just my luck ... .
P.S.
As for my daughter's car ... Well, I never drove it again. Never once in the seven years that my daughter owned it did I even agree to ride in it. But it served my daughter well. In fact, on an ice-laden January morning in 2007, while my daughter was driving to her first day of student teaching in another northern Michigan town, that same car saved my daughter's life when the driver of a twelve-passenger van lost control and side-swiped Rachel's car sending it into a spin. That hit sent my daughter's vehicle into a major intersection where she was broad-sided by another vehicle. The car was totaled, but it saved her life ... just like her dad had promised all those years ago ... .
Our daughter's 1991 Olds '88 before that infamous November morning:
My husband remembers it as "The Day My Wife Defied Physics."
I, however, will always recall November 9, 2001 as the day I survived an unplanned date with Lady Luck and came out on the winning side of her favor in spite of the fact that I should have lost ... big time ... in more ways than one:
Now I would be the first to admit that I am usually engaged in doing three or four things at once. Sometimes, I am successful, like when I read, knit, and watch television simultaneously and can remember the plot line, never drop a stitch, and correctly answer the Daily Double question on Jeopardy!
But the morning of November 9, 2001 was not one of those times. On that morning, I was concentrating all of my energy on accomplishing only one task: ordering a "wow" outfit online from Coldwater Creek for my twenty-fifth high school class reunion.
A modest endeavor, right?
Wrong!
First of all, Friday, November 9, 2001, was a holiday--a free day from school for both teachers and students that marked the halfway point of the first semester of the school year. Since I taught in the same school district where my two teenage children attended school, all three of us were home that morning.
Both kids were still asleep at eight a.m., however, and I was sitting in my favorite bathrobe, relishing a third cup of coffee as I intently focused on rationalizing why I deserved to order the sparkly black velvet ensemble of my dreams. I know I was feeling more than a little guilty about my anticipated purchase because I distinctly remember jumping when the phone rang. And I was more than startled when the voice on the other end announced that the carpet cleaning crew I had scheduled back in October, "Just in time for the holidays," would be arriving in less than twenty minutes.
The carpet crew?
Twenty minutes?
I had totally forgotten they were coming that morning!
But, being the caring mom that I am, I didn't want to wake my daughter and ask her to move her vehicle just so Stanley Steamer could park in the space closest to the front sidewalk and have access to the front water faucet. My daughter needed to enjoy sleeping in past her usual wake up call of six a.m.
Well, at least that's what I told her and everyone else afterwards.
To be honest, as soon as I hung up the phone, I panicked. All I really wanted to do was to order the outfit before the cleaning crew arrived. Order it when I was alone with just my credit card. Order it before either one of my kids was awake. Order it when no one but me knew just how much it cost.
So, I decided to do the selfless thing and move my daughter's car myself.
Huge mistake!
My daughter had newly acquired her first car, a 1991 Olds '88-- a behemoth of a vehicle if ever there was one--only one month earlier. The thing was a tank, which was why my husband had bought it for her in the first place: "It's just what a young girl needs to navigate hazardous northern Michigan roads in the winter."
My daughter loved her car; I didn't. If I could have, I would have taken a wrecking ball to it the minute it started to leak islands of oil on our driveway one day after its arrival.
Furthermore, I disliked its color, its size, and its temperament; the darn thing always seemed to stall or jerk when I was behind the wheel. But my real distaste for it had to do with the fact that with my lack of depth perception, I had a heck of a time maneuvering it around other vehicles or parking it in our garage on the few occasions I had been asked to do so.
And I was especially not fond of it on the morning of November 9, 2001, as it sat like an immovable lump in our driveway with a glaze of sparkling frost on its windows.
But my window of opportunity to move that blasted hunk of steel and order the outfit was quickly closing if I was to get both accomplished before the cleaning crew arrived.
To this day, I am convinced that my daughter's car sensed my hostility. Still dressed in my worn bathrobe and slippers, I struggled unlocking the driver's door in the cold morning air. Once seated, I put the key into the ignition. The fact that the starter made an unusual hiccupping sound didn't faze me. "Typical," I remember muttering. "I'm the one that's freezing out here! And you don't hear me hiccupping!"
Of course, the defroster wouldn't work. Oh, sure, a lot of hot air was blowing, but it wasn't from that car's defroster! And forget about locating an ice scraper amid my daughter's various basketballs and athletic bags; that would have been too easy!
So, with about ten minutes to go before the crew was scheduled to arrive, I rolled down the windows, peered through the minute circle of clear glass now visible on the front window, and decided I could easily maneuver that junk heap to its rightful place on the other side of our driveway with or without a clear view.
I put the car in reverse. Backed it up a bit. Turned the wheel to the right. Swerved a little. No problem. Inched the car's rear end to the right side of the driveway--over to where it belonged. Straightened the wheel. Applied the brakes. Turned the wheel to the left. Straightened the wheel again. Drove slowly ahead. So far, so good. Realized my front end should be a little closer to the garage door. Lightly touched the accelerator before hitting the brakes again.
And then ... and then ... all hell broke loose.
In slow motion I watched myself drive that Satanic vehicle right through the garage's four paneled door, past my own vehicle neatly parked in the opposite stall, past the snow blower, lawn mower, two bicycles and garbage pails and come to a jerking halt nose to nose with the wall which housed our family room on its other side.
The entire garage shuddered and heaved when I plowed my way through, but not one thing was touched or harmed with the exception of the garage door, which from my vantage point had disappeared completely, and of course, the front end and window of my daughter's blasted car.
And what did I do?
I just sat there, totally amazed at the amount of sparkling glass that had shattered all around me, but for some unexplainable reason had avoided landing anywhere on my person. Not one shard.
I remember thinking, "Well, I got myself in this mess; I had better get myself out of it."
So ... I put the car in reverse and proceeded to back out of the garage. In doing so, I really did another huge number on the hood of the car because the missing garage door was on top of it!
Once outside, I gingerly opened the door and slowly stepped out to view the rest of the damages.
By this time I had visitors: both of my children and our Golden Retriever were standing in the driveway. The kids were wide awake and speechless; the dog was cowering with his tail between his legs.
And of course, from the safety of their shiny yellow Stanley Steamer van, seemingly frozen at the edge of the driveway, was my two-man cleaning crew who had arrived just as I was plowing through the garage door.
Within seconds one of the men was running towards me, arms flailing and head shaking as he exclaimed, "Jesus Christ lady! I ain't never seen nothin' like that in my whole damned life! Honest to God! I ain't never!"
My children, still shocked, echoed his sentiments sharing that they thought a bomb had exploded because the entire upstairs had shaken.
As for me, I turned to one and all, smiled weakly, and said somewhat sarcastically, "Well, now, I do believe that is enough excitement for the morning. If you don't mind, let's get those carpets cleaned " 'Just in time for the holidays!' "
"But lady," the discombobulated carpet cleaning man interjected. "Whad'ya gonna do about the garage door? It's just sorta hangin' there."
We all turned towards the garage. And sure enough, the garage door was "sorta hangin' there" no longer on top of the car, but suspended from the ceiling on its upper tracks. Apparently, I hadn't gone through the garage door; instead, I had wedged all four panels up on one another upon impact.
I wanted to glibly turn and say in my best Scarlet O'Hara impersonation, "Well, Rhett, I'll just think about that tomorrow." But I knew I had to call my husband as soon as possible and attempt to explain to him what had happened.
My husband is a structural engineer. He also happens to be very kindhearted and patient unless he is terribly busy or something just doesn't make any sense to him. He was reached easily enough on the phone a few moments later. But the conversation that ensued made no sense to him whatsoever, and today, eight years later, the content of it is still highly debated in our household:
"Hey, Lar."
"What's up?"
"Well, not much except that I drove Rachel's car through the garage door a few moments ago."
"You what?"
"I said I drove Rachel's car through the garage door."
"No you didn't."
"What do you mean, 'No you didn't?' I did too! I drove that damn car through the garage door. The front window is smashed and the hood and the top of the car are really scraped."
"That doesn't make any sense. You would be defying physics for you to have done what you just said you did."
"Okay, buster. Have it your way. But I'm standing in the driveway in my robe and slippers. Rachel's car has no front window. Her front end is smooched. And the garage door looks like it is now part of the garage ceiling!"
"I still don't get it. What about the supporting column in the garage? The one that supports the entire roof? Did you miss that? Is that still there? Because if that's not there, we're in big trouble."
"Larry! If that column wasn't still there, I wouldn't still be here! Are you going to analyze what happened over the phone or are you going to ask me if I'm okay?"
"Are you okay?"
"That doesn't sound very convincing. Yes! I'm okay. Just please come home before something else happens."
"Diane! It is virtually impossible for you to have done what you just said you did!"
"Maybe so, but you've got to come home and see for yourself."
<<<~~~>>>
Apparently, what I had failed to tell my beloved husband, and what I learned later, is that when I initially plowed through the garage, the bottom panel of the garage door had folded onto the second panel, the second panel onto the third and so forth. All four panels had "pancaked" because upon impact, I had popped the two main bolts supporting the guide rails. One bolt was found thirty feet away having traveled over my car and eventually rested by the kitchen door; the other traveled the same distance but ended up on the other side of the garage by a side door.
But the most crucial part of my escapade that morning, according to my husband's calculations, was that by sheer luck I had missed demolishing the center column that holds up the entire garage by a mere inch. One inch further, and I would have been a goner. No more holidays. No more cleaned carpets. No more sparkly outfits ... ever.
All of this was explained to me by my husband later that afternoon. After he had calmed down. After the cleaning crew departed. After the car insurance people were contacted. After my children were assured their home and mother were still both connected and stable. After the dog was no longer cowering. After my husband disengaged the garage door from its ceiling perch, found the main bolts, and somehow got everything working again. After I ordered my sparkly ensemble.
Yes, I did order it. And I wore it to my high school reunion with no feelings of guilt whatsoever. However, every time I moved a certain way, I would shed "sparkles." Yup, glittering sparkles flaked off the jacket when I moved or danced. Glittering sparkles that looked like little bits of broken glass ... Just my luck ... .
P.S.
As for my daughter's car ... Well, I never drove it again. Never once in the seven years that my daughter owned it did I even agree to ride in it. But it served my daughter well. In fact, on an ice-laden January morning in 2007, while my daughter was driving to her first day of student teaching in another northern Michigan town, that same car saved my daughter's life when the driver of a twelve-passenger van lost control and side-swiped Rachel's car sending it into a spin. That hit sent my daughter's vehicle into a major intersection where she was broad-sided by another vehicle. The car was totaled, but it saved her life ... just like her dad had promised all those years ago ... .
Our daughter's 1991 Olds '88 before that infamous November morning:
 Recognized |
|
This is a contest entry. The rules are: Write a first-person, creative nonfiction article / story / memoir / or poem of any style that features the element of luck.
Pays
one point
and 2 member cents. 
You need to login or register to write reviews. It's quick! We only ask four questions to new members.
© Copyright 2024. Mrs. KT All rights reserved.
Mrs. KT has granted FanStory.com, its affiliates and its syndicates non-exclusive rights to display this work.
