Sometimes a millisecond can make a huge difference in whether lives proceed unscathed, or are wreaked.
Joe and I were returning to our old farm home in the rural outskirts of Saginaw from Bay City’s Bark Park. Bryn had happily bounced about for an hour in that popular park, mixing it up with all manner of other leash-less dogs full of energy and mischief. Now we three ambled the twelve miles back, driving well below the 55 mph speed limit along the empty, two-lane Davis Road so we could enjoy the persistent late afternoon colors and fall sun as it peeked between dramatic white and black clouds, which couldn’t decide whether to dump rain or move on.
The bumpily paved two-lane throughway loosely defines Saginaw Valley State University’s eastern border. To our left, a few small homes lined the road: behind them vast, crew-cut corn fields sprawled messily over flat ground, their rows of stubble occasionally interrupted by a few lonely-looking maple and pine trees. On the road’s right side another tangle of trees framed a large pond set amid rolling lawns that marked the northern edge of SVSU’s campus.
Suddenly, out of nowhere, a very large, fully-grown doe bounded past the car’s bonnet and rocketed toward the campus’s wilder area. Stunned, I didn’t think to telegraph ‘stop’ to my foot, so the car carried on at a steady 35 mph. Then, right behind her, another large deer leaped past, so close I was sure we were done. Our bodies instinctively jerked back in our seats as a third doe followed the first two, shooting us a terrified glance as she chased after the others. We actually felt her brush the car’s bonnet. Had I driven one millisecond faster and all of us would have ended up in a tangle of bodies and smashed glass.
Unsecured in the back seat, wide-eyed Bryn would probably have sailed through the shattered windscreen.
“Almost...” my husband breathed, shakily.
(Our epitaphs might have been: Died From Deer While Watching For Potholes)
A day later, back in Traverse City, I had to run to the pharmacy just after 8 pm. A cold, persistent rain and wind were working hard to sever lingering leaves from tree branches. I braked at the barely visible stop sign, looked both ways and moved ahead slowly, noting that the dark, wet pavement and streetlight had all but absorbed the car’s headlights. There was no moon.
Suddenly two small boys, maybe 8 years old, darted between two parked cars to run straight across the leaf-heaped street, directly in front of my approaching car. They had no idea I was there! Horrified, I braked: the car’s leaf-coated wheels skidded slightly as they skated over more layers of leaves before fully stopping. Rolling down the window I tried to spot the children, but they’d vanished. After collecting my wits I got out to inspect the brick street in the cold, wet drizzle, just to be absolutely sure...
WHY would such young children, who wore no raingear, be out so late in this abominable weather? Mere inches had stood between my two-ton black car and them. If I’d been moving just a little faster...
“ ‘Occurrences like these
Tend to happen in threes’ ” my Uncle Milton used to intone, thoughtfully. It was a favorite quote of his.
Maybe.
I didn’t drive the next day, a little superstitious, I suppose.
‘Almost’ seems such a fragile word...
Joe and I were returning to our old farm home in the rural outskirts of Saginaw from Bay City’s Bark Park. Bryn had happily bounced about for an hour in that popular park, mixing it up with all manner of other leash-less dogs full of energy and mischief. Now we three ambled the twelve miles back, driving well below the 55 mph speed limit along the empty, two-lane Davis Road so we could enjoy the persistent late afternoon colors and fall sun as it peeked between dramatic white and black clouds, which couldn’t decide whether to dump rain or move on.
The bumpily paved two-lane throughway loosely defines Saginaw Valley State University’s eastern border. To our left, a few small homes lined the road: behind them vast, crew-cut corn fields sprawled messily over flat ground, their rows of stubble occasionally interrupted by a few lonely-looking maple and pine trees. On the road’s right side another tangle of trees framed a large pond set amid rolling lawns that marked the northern edge of SVSU’s campus.
Suddenly, out of nowhere, a very large, fully-grown doe bounded past the car’s bonnet and rocketed toward the campus’s wilder area. Stunned, I didn’t think to telegraph ‘stop’ to my foot, so the car carried on at a steady 35 mph. Then, right behind her, another large deer leaped past, so close I was sure we were done. Our bodies instinctively jerked back in our seats as a third doe followed the first two, shooting us a terrified glance as she chased after the others. We actually felt her brush the car’s bonnet. Had I driven one millisecond faster and all of us would have ended up in a tangle of bodies and smashed glass.
Unsecured in the back seat, wide-eyed Bryn would probably have sailed through the shattered windscreen.
“Almost...” my husband breathed, shakily.
(Our epitaphs might have been: Died From Deer While Watching For Potholes)
A day later, back in Traverse City, I had to run to the pharmacy just after 8 pm. A cold, persistent rain and wind were working hard to sever lingering leaves from tree branches. I braked at the barely visible stop sign, looked both ways and moved ahead slowly, noting that the dark, wet pavement and streetlight had all but absorbed the car’s headlights. There was no moon.
Suddenly two small boys, maybe 8 years old, darted between two parked cars to run straight across the leaf-heaped street, directly in front of my approaching car. They had no idea I was there! Horrified, I braked: the car’s leaf-coated wheels skidded slightly as they skated over more layers of leaves before fully stopping. Rolling down the window I tried to spot the children, but they’d vanished. After collecting my wits I got out to inspect the brick street in the cold, wet drizzle, just to be absolutely sure...
WHY would such young children, who wore no raingear, be out so late in this abominable weather? Mere inches had stood between my two-ton black car and them. If I’d been moving just a little faster...
“ ‘Occurrences like these
Tend to happen in threes’ ” my Uncle Milton used to intone, thoughtfully. It was a favorite quote of his.
Maybe.
I didn’t drive the next day, a little superstitious, I suppose.
‘Almost’ seems such a fragile word...