B. Lynn Goodwin

Wreck

Recently we drove my husband’s ’63 Corvair convertible back from our garage in Danville, California to its home base at his shop in Richmond. It bothers me to ride in that vintage vehicle on California freeways, so my husband, Richard, compromised. We took back roads. We were cruising the hills of Port Costa when he decided to shift into low rather than braking. Instead, he hit reverse. 

Oops!

The engine shuddered in a death rattle. Nevertheless, Richard persisted. He fiddled with things under the hood while I baked under the sizzle of the August sun.

A motorcycle mechanic, overhearing the engine that wouldn’t turn over, came out of his house and offered to help. Richard wasn’t ready for that at first. Neither one of them could fix it. After extensive effort, we coasted to a spot under a tree at the end of the block and called AAA, using my card because he uses his for church people “between addresses." 

As the sun continued its journey, we moved our folding picnic chairs further back into the shade and pulled out the cooler we always carry. It was filled with cheese, crackers, Coke for him and water for me. I nibbled, read, and we moved the chairs further up the street as the sun crept across the sky. 

Was some wifely guidance needed?

Richard has faced too many vehicle catastrophes. Sure, his coping skills are excellent, and I’ve been with him long enough that I always bring a book. That’s the only thing in my control when we go riding. Therein lies the problem. I love him and trust him, and maybe I need to become an extra pair of eyes for him. After all, anybody could make a mistake when driving.

 A few months earlier he drove into a yellow protector pole in a gas station. The side of his Dodge Durango was more damaged than the pole, and the service station didn’t report it, so it didn’t go on his record. Good thing! He doesn’t want another moving violation.

He’s been more cautions since we totaled our RV and the Jeep we were towing outside of Boerne, TX on May 13, 2024. We were heading home after visiting his family when I looked up and saw us veering off the right hand shoulder. 

Oddly, I didn’t panic. Instead, I clutched our dog-dog tighter. In my head, I told him, I guess this is it. My calmness and acceptance amazed me. Richard was braking and steering with all his might, and all I could do was protect Mateo, our beloved Maltese-Terrier. Beyond that I was powerless. Or maybe I was in shock.  

Looking back, I’m amazed that I didn’t think about my only sibling or Richard's seven sons and daughters or the people in the church he pastors or anything but clutching our  dog, Mateo. 

Then we were flying across Hwy 46. I still see the eyes of the driver headed towards us as she slammed on her brakes. Richard was in the midst of a sharp U-turn, crossing the road to prevent us from rolling over. 

I closed my eyes and didn’t know then that he was trying to avoid the brick wall he saw at the edge of a farmer’s field. If we’d slammed into it, I wouldn’t be telling this story. 

After a sharp lurch to the right and a giant thunk, everything was still. I opened my eyes. I found myself lying on my side, leaning into the metal frame of the RV, looking through the jagged windshield, and still clutching Mateo. I was eye level with a patch of Texas dirt. Tree trunks stood about 25 feet ahead of us. 

Richard was hanging over me and struggling to unbuckle his seat belt.

 “Well, that’s the end of the RV,” he said as I looked from him hanging over me to the TV dangling by its cord. I know he’d  planned to move to it and travel around the country if I died first. Of course he’d always said, “I want us to go together,” but he’s revised that statement, thank goodness.