ECHOES

This was written almost a year ago today, in January 2001. This morning eight inches of snow covered our landscape. We drove the same road but this time there was no van in the bushes.

         This morning as I drove the two miles down my snow covered road to town, I came across a blue minivan which had gone off the road and was listing to starboard, bow downward, in the ditch. I recognized it as belonging to the woman who lives "two doors" down the road. She was not in the vehicle, but since I have often had her pass me as I came the other way at around nine o'clock, and it was now twenty past, I knew it could not have happened that long ago.

         I wondered what she thought as she tried edging the van around the bend to the left while her wheels insisted on heading right. My mind flashed back to last winter, when heading home from Albany, I turned up Pinto Ranch Road, a three-quarter mile connection between Route 203 and my road. To prevent water build up, the road is crowned sharply, but, on that day, it was snow and ice covered. I had shifted the car into third gear as I rounded the final turn and neared the intersection with my road. I downshifted to second as I slowed. This part of the road is surrounded by tall trees. It rarely sees the sun.

         At this point my car said. "To Hell with you, I want to drift right". The car began to slide. "Don’t hit the brake, stupid, turn the wheel in the direction of the skid!" Lot of good that did. Shortly the car was pointed downward into the drainage ditch, with one wheel off terra firma. The only injury was to my pride and my hand, from hitting the roof of the car openhanded after I exited.

         My auto club supplied a tow truck, which pulled the car out unharmed. That happened almost a year ago today. Was my neighbor's skid an echo of mine? Is the past repeating itself?

         Three days ago, my brother-in-law and his girlfriend paid a visit. We sat and chatted. My wife, fearing we were running low on trail mix, insisted I open another bag and set out a second bowl. I reached into the kitchen cabinet above me and pulled down a container. I opened the trail mix and began to pour it out. Some spilled on the floor.

         I bent down to pick it up, raised myself and cracked my head on the edge of the cabinet door. Stunned, I staggered away holding my head. Within a minute I realized my hand was wet, as was the side of my face. Blood streamed from the wound. I went to the bathroom and soaked a hand towel with water and held it to the spot I thought was the source of the flow.

         I sat down and in time the wound began to clot. The three onlookers more or less agreed it would not need stitches, but that I would have a headache later. I resumed being the proper host, noting that I had kept the trail mix unsoiled.

         The next morning in the shower I was prepared for the pain of water hitting the wound, but there was none. Relieved, my 'gray cells' began to work. Fifty years ago, the little boy I was got up from the dinner table and began to take his plate to the kitchen to be washed. His trip was interrupted when he walked into the stucco wall of the house, ripping open his forehead.

         For reasons I know in my heart, that accident happened in January or February 1951. The mark is still there and as my hairline has receded, becomes more visible. At the time we were living in Puerta La Cruz, Venezuela, in a ranch house built for the Americans who were teaching the Venezuelans how to run an oil refinery. Most of the Yanks were from Port Arthur, Texas; only a few were Philadelphians like us.

         For years, I thought the only echo of that time was my rediscovery of Hank Williams' music, which the Texans loved, and my memory of seeing Sunset Boulevard on the outdoor screen by the swimming pool of the 'club'. I was wrong; I had forgotten about the bump on the head, which may have set me on a new course in life.

         Echoes are scary. Two bumps fifty years apart. Two cars go off the road on ice. I am sure that was supposed to be my car in the ditch this morning, but because I had to reattach my windshield wiper before starting out, the timing was off. I better walk down the road and apologize to the woman for getting her caught up in my past.

Valatie 1/9/01