My alarm clock didn’t even go off. I was already awake. I never sleep well when I know I have to get up at 4am. I work two 12-hour shifts starting at 5am on Saturday and Sunday, every weekend of the year. There are benefits to having a three-and-a-half day workweek, but the start time of my shift is not one of them.
I pulled the car out of the garage and paused on the driveway, as I do every day, to put on my seat belt and make sure the garage door went all the way down and stayed down. I then checked for traffic to the left and then to the right and started my left hand turn. But this time, out of the corner of my eye, I noticed something different at the end of my street. I looked, and looked again. It was a bit too far in such dim light to make out what was down there.
I looked one more time. This dark car seemed to be abnormally positioned. It didn’t seem to be parked along the street and it wasn’t really in a driveway. Based on the exhaust coming out the back, it was running. Oddly, there were more exhaust puffs rising from an area near the front. The headlights were shining on something large and white directly in front of it — possibly a big SUV I imagined. Yet, even for a resource wasting SUV, that was an awful lot of exhaust, I thought.
Once I had finally tried out all of my rationalizations (its not my problem, its probably nothing, I have to go to work), I decided to reverse my turn and head the other way.
Tales From the AutoCrypt
As I approached the scene, it seemed the vehicle had smashed into a big pole at the corner of a driveway. The driver of this vehicle had clearly mistaken the “T” intersection for a much more flexible and forgiving one.
I came to a stop, squinting to see occupants inside. I saw the silhouette of the top half of a head just above the driver’s side headrest. There was no movement, and no other cars or people around. The exhaust rising at the front was obviously radiator fluid vaporizing as it spewed onto something increasingly hot under the hood.
I pulled my car slowly past the driver’s side of the vehicle. I pretty much had zero desire to view the grisly and violent end of someone’s life. He appeared to be just sitting there with his head back against the headrest – nothing grisly so far.
I called the local police and asked if they had a report on the matter. They hadn’t, but they would send someone right away. I sat for a few seconds, wondering what I should be doing. I figured I should be going over to him and seeing if he needs help. But I also knew that this wasn’t tiny-town, MN either. The dude could have spent the last few hours whacked-out on some substance. Someone like that might wake up and mistake me for that voice in his head or worse, Diablo himself (I look really grumpy at 4:30 in the morning).
I got out of my car and went about half way toward the car, hearing clearly that the music was cranked to its maximum speaker-distorting volume. Yeah, you guessed it — Country Music. The only country music items missing at the scene were the guy’s ex and his recently deceased dog. Other than those two items, the rest of the country music world was present and accounted for: the Mercury brand car, the probable alcohol induced state, and the healthy dose of hard luck that a pole would jump in front of his car like this, kickin’ him while he’s down.
Specifically, the car was a black two door Mercury — one of the bigger, older models. I got a little closer. I didn’t see blood spatters or any other “CSI” potential. He looked a little pale, a little cold, and not as “fresh” as I was hoping. He still wasn’t moving. The doors were locked. His mouth was hanging open just a bit. There was no one else in the car.
The steam stopped now, which meant the radiator fluid had completely drained. I could smell that the car’s engine temperature was already well on its way to levels never intended by the manufacturer. I knew that Mercury’s were actually just Ford’s with a different emblem stuck on the front. I didn’t recall reading anything good about Ford’s failsafe engineering designs, so I was pretty sure that flames were on the way.
My Grandmother swears by Fords though. Just the same, it doesn’t stop me from worrying about her and her little Ford’s. The way I see it, my Grandmother is zipping down the road in what she believes is a sturdy, solid Ford. But in reality, God has a dozen husky Angel’s surrounding her as she drives, blowing out fires and holding the fenders on. When she pulls into the grocery store, they all collapse from exhaustion. They then flip a coin to determine who joins her in the grocery, including the checkout line experience, where it quickly becomes apparent that she even has coupons for the coupons (my grandmother could have managed Enron back to profitability with coupons). Grandmothers are obviously VIP’s in heaven’s eyes.
The lively chap in front of me was clearly no grandmother. And no one has ever mistaken me for an Angel. Now, I’ll do a lot to try to save somebody from a violent end, but jumping into a flaming Mercury was not something I planned on doing before breakfast.
Since everything seemed calm at the moment, I picked up my phone and called in to work, informing the night guy that I was going to be delayed until the police arrived at the very least. As I’m talking to my co-worker, the sound of the Ford’s gas engine is gradually changing to that of a diesel (its melting down internally). I made my way around the back of the vehicle to see if I could get in the other side. It was locked up tight. On my way around the rear of the car, heading back to the driver’s side again, the engine made a couple violent lurches and died.
I knew that if we could make it past this juncture without fire, the risk would only dissipate from this point forward. But a new problem presented itself immediately. The car started to roll backward, down the hill, and directly toward me. It wasn’t a problem scurrying out of the way, but the whole thing had that this-isn’t-happening-to-me feel to it.
I knew there was nothing I could do. As I stood there on Bagpipe Blvd, watching the “unmanned” Mercury gaining speed on its way by, I considered again that none of it was real. With Johnny Cash blaring, the country music-powered Mercury rolled down the street in reverse. I described all of this to the night guy, whom I still had on the phone. I’m not sure he believed me. Whether he believed me or not, talking to him certainly helped me feel like it was real.
The car seemed to miss everything at first, but it eventually smashed into something, and the stop was quite abrupt. I figured that this rear impact might be the ignition source needed for the auto-inferno I had been imagining. I ran down the street and up to the driver’s door, figuring that the harsh wallop had surely awakened Mr. Congeniality. He never moved.
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| A couple more minutes went by. The police arrived. The officer seemed unmoved by the whole scene. He seemed convinced that the guy was passed-out and drunk — based, I imagine, upon his experience. He was probably right. But as I looked closely at the guy, I didn’t see his chest moving up and down. The officer smacked the window with his steel flashlight three times, right by the driver’s head. I couldn’t believe it didn’t shatter, with the force he used. No reaction from the driver.
The officer took down my information and said I could go. Another unmarked squad car rolled up as I pulled away. I went to work and completed my 12-hour shift without any further adventure.
Expect the Unexpected
This past week I attended the funeral in the Twin Cities of a woman who had always been a bit of a puzzle to me. Her name was Mary Jane Hartman (my grandmother’s sister and formerly a Jensen of the Lake Benton area), and from my limited personal experience with her, I could not reconcile a couple standout characteristics that I was aware of. Firstly, she had the soft-spoken, sweet-little-old-lady-thing going. But at the same time she drove this bright yellow VW bug that would make a perfectly healthy, banana loving monkey put his hand over his heart and recite the pledge of allegiance.
Like anything in life that we cannot fully explain, I filed it away in my brain under “X”, for X-files, where hopefully one day, down the road, it could be explained. That day came this last Friday.
From the moment I stepped into the church, there was something disrupting the sadness and remorse that I expected to find in full force there. While it was still a time of reflection and tears for many, I found that the tears were mixed with smiles, and the collective demeanor of the extended family and friends was lighter and brighter than I had anticipated. I cannot say I’ve been to a great number of funerals, but I can say that this was the first one that seemed to have a celebration feel to it.
We eventually arrived at the point where the service started and everyone made their way into the sanctuary and took a seat. Right from the start, the words that were spoken began to fill in the gaps of my character/personality quagmire of Mary.
Each person that spoke, gave personal testimony about Mary, and the impact she had on their lives. One woman spoke of how Mary was a generally loving person, but especially poured that love upon her family and friends. She indicated how Mary could lift the spirits of those around her, making her a bit of a magnet in that way.
And Mary had a zest and zeal for life, according to the words we heard. Apparently, this 70-year old woman would take the yellow Bug over to Costco and load it up with groceries for five. When I (age 37) consider that I don’t even like getting off my butt to reheat some leftovers in the microwave, this seemed particularly impressive.
Mary also went out of her way to help, protect, and comfort others. And she did this, at times, at her own personal and sometimes physical expense. I came to understand, after the funeral, that Mary had experienced some pretty harsh circumstances in her middle years. I would have expected those experiences to cause anyone to be bitter, crass, and curmudgeon-like. But Mary, on the whole, turned her lemons into lemonade — seemingly symbolized by her bright yellow Bug. Mary’s family is an impressive collection of big-hearted people. This is one of the obvious results of the way Mary lived her life. Most of the “little things” she did are probably only known entirely by God.
Am I painting a Saint here? Well, compared to me, probably. Mary did have her beefs in life though. From what I understand, she was a heckler for precision, punctuality, financial responsibility (but willing to spend anything on grand children), and consistency. For example, the broom belonged in the garage, and nowhere else. When you were finished with it, you had best return it to the spot from whence it came. Or, let’s say that the Sunday morning service was at 11:00am, but didn’t really get started until 11:08am. Even if you were there at 11:07am, it didn’t matter — both you and the Lord were officially late.
I am not sure what the ultimate fate of the Mercury driver was, but I can say that I hope he lives a very long time, or at least long enough to make some lemonade in his life. It is clear to me that a funeral for that young man, today, would be a very different experience.
Which brings me to another point. I believe that sometimes, we see a great person and we tend to think that we could never live a life that good. Or, we think it’s a bit late for us because we have already blown so many things that we could never make up for all our failings. I think many of us can identify with cowering in the shadows of someone’s high-road. It might be a parent or a sibling or a friend that seems to walk a personally unattainable path.
Living up to the standard of someone else’s life is something of a mistake, if you are only using it to highlight the flaws in yourself. Glean ideas, insights and inspiration from that person’s life. Absorb whatever of those gems you can, and combine them with the positive character assets you already have. Some will stick, some won’t.
Remember that the Lord is the only perfect person to have walked the Earth and he isn’t in the business of expecting perfection. Live life fully and in a way that can be celebrated one day. Do this one day at a time, building from the good days AND the bad days. God just might be more impressed with how you recover from, grow from, and build upon a bad day, than all of your good days combined.
Here’s to little old Mary, who built upon the bad days to carve out a life worth celebrating, despite the rough and tumble of imperfection . . . casting a long, loving shadow.
That’s my report from the “Big City”.
Brian in the Big City
Employee #0090698
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