Accidents Happen

That’s why they call them accidents. We don’t plan screw-ups. We don’t look for them. But somehow they find us and when they do we feel a whole raft of emotions. We feel embarrassed, stupid, mortified, frightened and definitely sobered by the realization that everything can change in an instant. We question our abilities. We wonder if this is the first signs of senility, Alzheimer’s, dementia or whatever our own personal deterioration looks like.

That’s why when we fall we will jump up, brush ourselves off and assure everyone around us that we are FINE. Maybe a small fracture or sprain, but really, just fine! We aren’t losing our balance and coordination. No, that pesky obstacle appeared out of nowhere and ensnared us. We are the victim of outside influences, nothing to do with our impaired abilities whatsoever.

I am well acquainted with falling. I fell twice in Alaska, breaking bones both times. I broke a bone in a fall in Mendocino and a girlfriend had to drive me to Redding to meet with friends there and my husband had to take a bus to Redding to retrieve me and our car. I broke my teeth in a fall in Redding on my way to a weekend with my siblings in Napa Valley. I went anyway, after kind treatment from my friend Donna’s dentist. I broke my glasses when I fell while loading the car for a trip to Alaska to testify at a trial. I fell in Newport while on vacation with my son Jim and his family, racing for mini-donuts as I recall, but I may have been the only one in that race. I’ve broken toes more times than I can count, each time vowing to wear shoes and be more careful. I’ve slipped and slid and suffered more scrapes and bruises than I care to recall. Ok, I’ll concede, maybe I’m just a little bit clumsy.

Yesterday I had my second automobile accident in fifty years of driving. My first accident was a skid on black ice in 1960 that ended up with us upside down in a ditch on the I-70 between Denver and Grand Junction. I got a ticket for being on the wrong side of the road because the highway patrolman said he had to issue a citation at every accident. Jim was just a baby, sleeping in a nest in the back seat, and he ended up without a scratch. My husband and I had seat belt bruises and walked away from the scene under our own power. The car was totaled.

My second auto accident was in 1996. It was also on an icy road, the 1-5 near Tacoma where I worked. One of the other drivers who started the bumper car mess got the ticket that time.

Since that first accident, I have been a careful and competent driver. One accident and no tickets. Until yesterday.

A quick early morning trip to the store changed my excellent record and shook my confidence. I was driving home in the early morning rain and made a perfunctory stop at the red light on Main and Hwy 99 in my home town. As I turned right onto Hwy 99, a grey pick-up truck side-swiped me and damaged the left front end of our little red Acura. We both pulled over and I called 911. A local policeman came and took our statements. He issued a ticket for failure to comply with a traffic control device and there went my 50 year record. Now I have an accident AND a ticket on my driving record.
I am trying to be grateful that no one was hurt and that our deductible is low. Insurance will cover the financial cost of the accident. I’m still not sure what will cover the cost to my ego and confidence. It helped that my husband’s response was calm and reassuring. He tells me I’m still a good driver and that accidents happen. Well, yes, but not to me. Not in cars anyway.

Writers Write

That’s what they say. Writer’s write. It’s not whether or not you are published or paid or have a certificate or a degree. It’s whether or not you put pen to paper or fingers to the keyboard. By that definition, I sometimes despair and think I can’t possibly be a writer.
Writers get up early or stay up late just to capture their thoughts in those moments when everyone else is sleeping and they can pour their soul onto paper or at least onto cyber paper. Writers would rather write than eat, or shop or watch tv. Again, I don’t qualify.
The idea of simply devoting time to writing seems self-indulgent. I should be cleaning something or cooking something or tending the garden. I can write when the chores are done. Except that when the chores are done, I’m too tired to write or the inspiration has fled or I need to check my e-mail.
It seems it’s just not enough to think the thoughts and write things in your head as you fall asleep or take a walk. You have to get it down on paper. Another soul has to hear or read it. Who says? Really, who decides such things?
If I create it, I own it. Even if I can’t remember it the next day, it’s still mine. I have made it so and rolled it around in my head and it matters. At least it matters to me. It may be self therapy or self indulgence, but what difference does that make? I still own it. I write for myself. Not for posterity. Who is this posterity anyway? I don’t know them and don’t really care all that much if they know me. I write for myself and sometimes for my writing group or my blog but if that’s all the further it goes, that’s just fine with me. Write on!