So shortly after noon today I was clipping up Interstate 81 at 74 mph in my 2007 Honda Accord (four mph above the speed limit, listening to Steeleye Span on CD—no, that’s not Steely Dan—and making plans for all the work facing me on my return to Front Royal, Virginia, when the car shuddered and a doe’s head briefly appeared on the other side of my windshield.
I never saw that deer coming. She ran straight into my car, probably at twenty mph or more. The damage was immense. The doe doubtless died, having left a large chunk of flesh in the passenger door. After getting the car off the highway, I got out to inspect the hit on my car. The wreckage extended from the headlight and front bumper to the passenger door. The exterior for three feet had vanished, exposing an engine of ruined parts and dripping liquids. The woman who was driving behind me and who was kind enough to stop to make sure I was all right said the doe just ran straight at my car.
Then came the ordeal of phone calls and changed plans. I phoned AAA, gave them the information for a tow truck, called the state highway patrol, and got in touch with my insurance company. I also found it necessary to pass water—I had been looking for a rest stop when Bambi bounded from the woods—and slogged up a soggy field beside the exit ramp to cross the bridge to what looked like a gas station. When I was halfway across the bridge, the state trooper appeared, blue lights blinking, behind my ruined car. I turned around, slogged again across said soggy field, spoke for a few minutes with a pleasant officer, told him I needed a restroom, and slogged again across the soggy field.
After crossing the bridge, I found that what I thought was a gas station was an office for cabin rentals with a large sign: “No Public Restrooms.” I entered, explained to three elderly ladies my situation, and was promptly shown to the restroom. Thank you!
Shortly after I returned to the car, the tow truck arrived. The driver got the car on the truck, and we set out. I spent 75 minutes in the company of a man who was very entertaining. He told me much of his personal life, which I won’t repeat here, and constantly hammered the driving skills of other motorists, all without asking me a single personal question. This latter circumstance made me happy, as I would rather listen in certain company to the stories of others rather than relate my own. His life was so different from my own that I gained some wonderful material for writing.
In Johnson City, we met an in-law who had come to drive me back to my son’s house. I unloaded everything in that car, including the license plates, and off we headed into the sunset.
Quite the ordeal. Tonight I am wiped out.
Now, having written this account, and having left out many details that were amusing, I want to tell you something. When I was thirty or forty years old, or maybe even fifty, such an accident would have depressed me tremendously. Money is scarce, and cars are expensive. In another life, that deer whacking my car would have left me fuming, cursing my luck, totally ticked off.
But as I pulled to the side of I-81, even before getting out of the car and investigating the damage, my first thought was of gratitude. I was grateful to be alive. I was grateful that deer slammed into the side of my car rather than crashing through the windshield and killing me. I was grateful not to be bound for a morgue or a hospital.
And yes, the death of that deer saddened me. That doe’s face as seen through my windshield, its eyes shocked, frantic, and desperate to live, will come to me in dreams.
Then came the ordeal of phone calls and changed plans. I phoned AAA, gave them the information for a tow truck, called the state highway patrol, and got in touch with my insurance company. I also found it necessary to pass water—I had been looking for a rest stop when Bambi bounded from the woods—and slogged up a soggy field beside the exit ramp to cross the bridge to what looked like a gas station. When I was halfway across the bridge, the state trooper appeared, blue lights blinking, behind my ruined car. I turned around, slogged again across said soggy field, spoke for a few minutes with a pleasant officer, told him I needed a restroom, and slogged again across the soggy field.
After crossing the bridge, I found that what I thought was a gas station was an office for cabin rentals with a large sign: “No Public Restrooms.” I entered, explained to three elderly ladies my situation, and was promptly shown to the restroom. Thank you!
Shortly after I returned to the car, the tow truck arrived. The driver got the car on the truck, and we set out. I spent 75 minutes in the company of a man who was very entertaining. He told me much of his personal life, which I won’t repeat here, and constantly hammered the driving skills of other motorists, all without asking me a single personal question. This latter circumstance made me happy, as I would rather listen in certain company to the stories of others rather than relate my own. His life was so different from my own that I gained some wonderful material for writing.
In Johnson City, we met an in-law who had come to drive me back to my son’s house. I unloaded everything in that car, including the license plates, and off we headed into the sunset.
Quite the ordeal. Tonight I am wiped out.
Now, having written this account, and having left out many details that were amusing, I want to tell you something. When I was thirty or forty years old, or maybe even fifty, such an accident would have depressed me tremendously. Money is scarce, and cars are expensive. In another life, that deer whacking my car would have left me fuming, cursing my luck, totally ticked off.
But as I pulled to the side of I-81, even before getting out of the car and investigating the damage, my first thought was of gratitude. I was grateful to be alive. I was grateful that deer slammed into the side of my car rather than crashing through the windshield and killing me. I was grateful not to be bound for a morgue or a hospital.
And yes, the death of that deer saddened me. That doe’s face as seen through my windshield, its eyes shocked, frantic, and desperate to live, will come to me in dreams.
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