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Jewish World Review Feb. 28, 2011 / 25 Adar I, 5771 How my poor man's Porsche, Virgil, prepared me for life By Alan Douglas
http://www.JewishWorldReview.com |
When visiting the dentist or getting my hair cut, my policy is to concentrate on listening rather than talking. It is best to avoid distracting or offending someone who can immediately hurt you. This is especially true when Louis cuts my hair. Louis believes liberal conspiracies are everywhere; the Food Network is banned from his shop. He is always armed (including when he cuts hair) and competes in quick draw competitions. Last week Leslie cut my hair and since she admits to watching the Food Network our conversation is a bit more relaxed. Leslie was excited and delighted; her son is driving home from school for Spring Break. I made an exception to my policy and told her my Spring Break story.
When I was in college and Spring Break rolled around no one offered to send me to the Mexican, French or any other Rivera. Thanks to the ride board (pre Craig's list and Facebook) students and others would form groups that shared expenses and driving duties for trips over break. The good news was that my hometown was Miami, so it wasn't hard to find a group. The bad news, jumping into a car immediately following exams and driving for 22 hours straight with a group of exhausted strangers crammed into a car is awful, at best. Depending on your fellow drivers could be risky. My salvation came when I acquired Virgil the Volkswagen. Virgil wasn't just a rear engine, air-cooled, economy car; he was a poor man's Porsche, a sporty, Karmann Ghia. Virgil was my friend and on long trips the rear heating vents made great cinnamon, baked apples. I made the trek by myself on occasion, but when friends joined me the 22 hours of driving was a road trip adventure. Trips with friends reminded me of our family car trips. My father loved to stop and show Waynesboro, Georgia, "The Bird Dog Capitol of The World" and other oddities. But his true love was crops. We would pull off the road and stop in the middle of nowhere to do an unannounced self-tour of an orange grove, check out peanuts in the fields or examine how the cotton was growing. My father never met a road-side produce stand he didn't like. We bought in bulk, and loaded our family car up with baskets of strawberries and bushels of corn.
One Spring Break, Virgil and I sailed down the interstate headed home when we came upon a produce stand offering 8 watermelons for two bucks. It was a bargain, and as I knew my father would love it. I stuffed them into the back seat and the strapped two into the passenger seat. When Virgil and I reach Ocala, Florida we were caught in one of those awful afternoon thunderstorms that attack central Florida. It was a real "gully washer", a deluge with limited or no visibility. Virgil did his best to brave the storm but it was too much. There was a loud scrunching sound and the windshield wiper on the driver's stopped working. There was no point doing anything risky. I pulled over to the shoulder on the right side of the road and turned on my emergency flashers to wait out the storm.
Less than five minutes later there was an explosion as another car smashed into us and hurled Virgil down the embankment. There was broken glass everywhere, the rain was pouring through where windows used to be, it was all at odd angle because the front of the car rested on the embankment about four feet lower than the rear of the car. But there wasn't any rear of the car. I looked over and saw the car battery sitting on the back seat and had one thought, "Virgil is dead." I had a bruised and sore stomach, a bleeding busted lip, a chipped tooth, a bit of limp, but no serious injuries. Virgil had protected me. By the time I climbed out the passenger door and climb up the embankment, the rain had stopped. There were lots of muddy puddles and a thick cloud of humid, steamy fog hung over the pavement. In the middle of the median coming out of the other car was a large, hysterical woman pointing and screaming at me. I figured I would go over and see if she was all right, but as I approached her she backed away in horror. She must have been in shock because the closer I got the more she was crying, wailing and screaming. She shouted, "Your insides, your insides!!" I yelled back, "I'm okay. Are you all right?" She wouldn't let me get near her. She just kept pointing at me and screaming, "Your insides are showing. You're hurt bad." It was only then I look down and realized that I was covered from my neck down with pieces of watermelon. It took some time to calm her down and reassure her that the red stuff wasn't my vital organs, but fruit.
The tow truck driver gave me and my suitcases a lift to nearest airport where I changed my clothes. I called my parents asking them to pick me up when I arrived. I told them I had changed my mind and was flying rather than driving. After they picked me up and saw I was all right I told them about the accident, and the watermelon. Whenever I have watermelon it reminds me to count my blessings and realize that sometimes even the worst looking things, that upset us the most, aren't as bad as they appear.
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JWR contributor Alan Douglas, an author, media executive, speaker, and attorney, lives con brio- except when he is grumpy.
Leases and Landing Gear
© 2010 Alan Douglas
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