Fire On The Road

“Fire On The Road”

It had been an enjoyable eleven days in the Cobleskill and Middleburgh, New York area. We had visited my aunts, uncles, and cousins.

Although we saw plenty of deer when we didn’t have guns, we hunted unsuccessfully. My brother Larry and I had a great time riding snowmobiles with our favorite cousins, and we all ate too much food that Thanksgiving in 1972. We also visited many of the places where my dad grew up, and learned that our family was significant in the settlement of those hills.

But the adventure took a dangerous turn on the way home. Cruising south on I88 at about 75 miles per hour, my dad had noticed our ’67 Chrysler 300 was pulling to the right. We stopped at a service station somewhere near Binghampton, New York, where the mechanic said that the right rear brake was too tight. He adjusted it and said it should be fine. Even though Larry and I were not troubled at that time, I remember noticing my dad was getting nervous.

But we had traveled less than fifty miles further when my dad said that he didn’t think it was fixed. Now we were all getting nervous. On I81 north of Scranton, Pennsylvania, the right rear brake locked up. Immediately, the tire blew. We’d had flat tires before, but my father knew this was different. He managed the car onto the berm, and shouted for us to all get out of the car quickly. I was in the back seat behind my dad, and he told me to crawl out the other side.

I remember looking back to see the wheel smoking. As my mom pulled my brother and me back away from it, we could see flames rising from under the car. My dad opened the trunk and reached through the flames to pull out our luggage. We yelled for him to get away before the gas tank exploded.

A truck driver stopped and sprayed our car with his fire extinguisher, but it was too late. Our car was burning beyond control. We watched as the interior was consumed and the windows melted. When the gas tank finally ignited, it actually didn’t affect the fire as much as we thought it would. My dad said that was because the tank was full, so there was no room for air in it.

When the flames reached the front of the car, the lights and the horn came on, like a final cry of life, and then it died. Our car was completely engulfed in fire. We stood beside the freeway, hundreds of miles from our home in Akron, Ohio, and watched in silence as cars slowed to rubberneck, and then raced on by.

By the time the police and fire engine got to the scene, only a skeleton of our car remained, and the fire still raged. We had no insurance and not very much money left after the vacation. We had nobody to call, and no idea how we were going to get home. The sun was setting, and it was getting very cold. The policeman asked my dad, “So, what are you going to do?” My dad shook his head in silence.

But then a doctor from the Cleveland, Ohio area stopped to see if anyone was hurt. I don’t remember his name, or really anything else about the man, maybe because we were all in shock. He must have been holidaying also and was on his way back home. Without hesitation, he loaded our luggage into his trunk, and took us all the way home. I remember the ride was long and quiet. My mom held my brother and me in the back seat. And the kind doctor would not accept any payment for the inconvenience.

He was our rescuer. Maybe he was our angel. I thank God that he was there.