This is Part 2. Part 1 is below this post. It's already been nominated for the Pulitzer Prize for Blogging.
My Saturday in the hometown started nicely with a great visit with Darla, her twins, and hubs. Good times. I had planned to meet my dad, grandmother, and his fiancé and called him after leaving Darla's. He told me that my aunt, her boyfriend, and his fiancé's sons would be meeting us -- because it was a good time for me to meet them. Of course it was!
I sat between my dad and my grandmother, showed pictures on my iPhone of the kids, asked about my other aunts -- the usual. It was going well. The fiancé was late, as were her two sons. I have a thing for punctuality, but I let it go because I was in one of my favorite restaurants and my grandmother was unintentionally cracking me up. I should have known things would turn crazy.
When our food arrived, my dad held out his hands to me and my aunt and asked me to say a blessing. Now, this would not surprise me if it were my grandfather, but this was my dad.
The extent of my spiritual conversations with my dad goes something like this: once I was home from college for Thanksgiving or Christmas and was watching Oprah in my parent's living room, half-way paying attention to the show and reading a magazine. Deepak Chopra was on talking about what he viewed the afterlife to be. At a commercial break, my father says, "you know, I do believe we go somewhere when we die." THAT'S IT. THE END. I grew up going to a protestant church with my grandparents, volunteered every year as a teen at VBS, was active in a college Christian organization -- the whole nine yards. My parents were not church-goers and besides the nightly blessing over dinner, God was not a big topic of conversation. We never prayed in restaurants.
And so, I said a blessing. I'm accustomed to praying aloud -- just not with this side of the family. Not ten seconds after I said "amen," my aunt's boyfriend voiced his opinion that prayers should be silent as to each individual's personal preference. I had offended him. Great. Later, my grandmother corners me in the restroom and tells me the fiancé is Jewish. So, I guess it was a good thing I held back on my prayer and didn't mention the blood of Christ washing away our sins to pave the way for our eternal salvation. You know, I wouldn't want to offend anyone else.
After lunch I drove for a bit to process the day so far.
That night I had a perfectly nice dinner and visit with a friend and afterward was going westbound on I-20 when what seemed like a nightmare began to unravel. I hit something metal that was standing straight up in the left lane. After I hit it, I looked in my rear-view mirror in time to see the car behind me hit whatever "it" was and start spinning. I didn't know what to do, so I drove over the overpass that was before me and pulled over safely, put on my hazards and checked out the damage. It didn't look that bad, I wasn't injured, but I was hysterical. I called Triple A and they called the state troopers for me, told me to sit tight and wait, so I did. There were several emergency vehicles on the other side of the interstate by this time, crossing the median to get to the scene. All I could see were their lights behind me glowing and there were no cars passing me at all. I tried calling the hubs, no answer. I called my friend Will. I cried. I was okay. I told myself to breathe. I called the hubs again, this time he answered. I told him I didn't know what I hit, but I wasn't the only car involved and moments later a deputy appeared at my door.
The deputy escorted me back to the wreck site and told me that it was a six car accident, but one car left the scene. I hit a trailer that had come unattached from an RV. It had been towing a golf cart. An 18-wheeler hit it first, then an SUV hit part of it, then I sideswiped the trailer. My car was the only one that was drivable. It was terrifying and I was told that if I would have been in the right lane I'd be dead. None of the vehicles involved had lights on.
I barely remember driving back to my hotel.
Sunday morning I got up, cried, cried some more, and got ready to check out. I went by my grandfather's house and told my mom what had happened, had coffee, and told her I'd call when I made it back home. I had breakfast with Molly and her two boys, then left for my five-hour trip home. I drove like a grandma.
The damage to the car is not impressive. I'm not sure about the damage to my emotional state. I'm not eager to get behind the wheel again. The hubs went to the grocery store today because I couldn't do it. We were planning on making the trip up for Thanksgiving, but now I'm not so sure. I may be making the cornbread dressing and sweet potato pie myself (if someone gets me the ingredients).
So, Universe, you win.
I'm not leaving the house again. It's okay, really. It will give me time to organize my closet and maybe learn to knit or quilt or clean. It's a good thing, right?
