This blog may be more than you want to read since I have discovered that bloggers are fast food readers rather than 7 course diners. I like to have something quick to read rather than a small book. You can skip the text and merely look at the array of photos of the car wreck I had when I was in High school. I have been learning a few things on a photo shop program. Here are some of my experiments:
Lights and textured
Solarized - interesting
The weave - my favorite skewing of a photoThe Gift
We’re told that every memory is catalogued in the marvelous capacity of our brain. We feel like we have lost them when they are not readily in our thoughts, but they may be dredged up with the right trigger. Some memories can go by in vivid pictures as it was looking out of my view of the inside of the rolling car. I see a maze of arms, legs, band uniform and items which had moments before been in place on the seat beside me. The tumbling memory is in slow motion. The particulars of how the car looked from the outside as it rolled over gravel road and farmer’s field isn’t part of the mind movie, but the landing was registered with a jolt and my ejection out of the driver-side door.
Landing in the dirt on one’s rear end and facing a vehicle which was still in rocking motion, vibrating from a tumultuous rollover was a stark perspective for a teenage driver. Sitting there and collecting what was left of one’s senses was another slow motion movement of time. Time seemed to slow but brain waves moved fast and thoughts passed quickly with a peppered rhythm. "How did that just happen? Where am I? My Dad is going to kill me! What a perfect ending to a ridiculously rotten day! I can’t believe I lived through that! I can’t believe I am not bleeding or broken somewhere! What do I do now? How am I going to get home?"
The car had stopped vibrating and rocking. The quiet was very intense; the setting surreal. I had been over this road a hundred or so times, but nothing looked familiar. The perspective of the surroundings, sitting in the dirt with a car sporting a flattened roof was nothing if not bizarre. I was aware as my heart rate pounded and a fight or flight adrenaline spike was going on fast and furious. Furious is a term which vibrated in me as my mind continued to contemplate the consequences of my irresponsible driving.
In a matter of minutes faces of men I didn’t know, couldn’t look in their eyes, would never see again, were coming to my aid. The car was upright; if the momentum had carried it one more roll, it might have landed on top of me. Guardian angels were attending my lowly person on this dramatic day, this dramatic event in my life. The car landed askew on a field edge, the manicured build up of dirt to keep irrigation water from leaking and then flooding out of the field. The car was high centered a bit, needing to be pulled from the raised barrier. A thoughtful gentleman brought his tractor and proceeded to pull the car to position in the roadway in the direction it was supposed to have been going.
The roof of the car was more dented on the passenger side which is probably one of the guardian angel aspects of the rollover, that more forceful damage occurred on that side more than the driver’s side. I could get into the car and start the engine which had not received any death blows and I could decidedly continue driving the conveyance the remainder of the two miles to my house, but dreading getting there. Again the thoughts shooting through my mind were "My Dad is going to kill me! This is going to put a crimp in my driving to school. This is just awful! I am SO miserable, adding more trauma to my horrible day. I am SO scared to announce to Dad that I have just wrecked a perfectly good car. It was running so well and I ruined it. My Dad is going to kill me!" And so it was that the time it takes to drive a mile or two seemed like an eternity filled with self-accusation and recriminations. It was with incredible angst of having to own up to neglect of awareness, neglect of duty, neglect of responsibility. It was a painful awareness of one’s serious flaws and despicable-ness. Two miles of driving a flat-roofed symbol of one’s stupidity was indeed a long distance.
Pulling into the long driveway of my house, I hoped the error of my ways would be noticed so I could merely melt into obscurity without having to face anyone. Alas, there was no one to notice that the car had indeed severely changed shape since I had mindlessly driven it away to school early in the day. There had been many other problematic factors contributing to my overall disturbed mind set, including and highlighted by the fact that I had forgotten part of my band uniform necessary to wear for a parade which had gone on in spite of the fact that I was not up to code. I thought the parade forgetfulness and trauma was the culmination to my terrible day, until I had to go home with a flattened car and make confessions to Dad.
The drive home in the afternoon consisted of a mindless manipulation of car function. I was mechanically operating the vehicle feeling miserable and wretched. I had ended up after the parade on the north side of town. The dirt road was not one I usually traversed going home. In my wretchedness I wasn’t paying attention to the curve in the road or the speed I was going. Going around a gravelly curve too fast was a lesson in physics I have never forgotten. Speed and marble-y objects on a curve can cause a heavy object to flip over. I have ever since been very cautious and nervous on gravel roads with curves.
At home I was afraid to find Dad; it was hard to own up to something that I knew was yet another drain on his resources. It was also a matter of letting him take over the burden. I had driven home feeling a burden of guilt, the weight of a bad experience. It was a relief to give it over to him, to let him take care of it, to take care of me. He was a soft touch, especially for tears. For as big a man as he was and as in charge of things as he was at his job, he could be very kind hearted and tender with his kids.
I went to my room in tears and he went to size up the car. It was in sad shape, never to be as cool as it was before I wrecked it. Dad was very gracious and understanding. He probably had had many close calls in his time of driving fast on rough roads. He had a well known reputation for how he wrangled the bypasses of canal levies on his job as Watermaster in the Reclamation Bureau. He also did amazing work with cars and welding. He took off the flattened roof with his welding expertise and it was a convertible for a while. The motor went into another Ford body, not nearly as cool as the first.
Other than feeling like a completely useless human being, having a car wreck and a terribly bad day, there was a singular jewel in the lot. The gift I was given was that Dad expressed to me that he was greatly relieved I wasn’t hurt. He was glad that my miserable, idiotic, lower than pond scum, despicable self had been preserved from harm. He was grateful I was okay and I was supremely grateful he could let me know what was important to him in spite of causing him the added burden. It was a blessed gift that stays in memory.
We’re told that every memory is catalogued in the marvelous capacity of our brain. We feel like we have lost them when they are not readily in our thoughts, but they may be dredged up with the right trigger. Some memories can go by in vivid pictures as it was looking out of my view of the inside of the rolling car. I see a maze of arms, legs, band uniform and items which had moments before been in place on the seat beside me. The tumbling memory is in slow motion. The particulars of how the car looked from the outside as it rolled over gravel road and farmer’s field isn’t part of the mind movie, but the landing was registered with a jolt and my ejection out of the driver-side door.
Landing in the dirt on one’s rear end and facing a vehicle which was still in rocking motion, vibrating from a tumultuous rollover was a stark perspective for a teenage driver. Sitting there and collecting what was left of one’s senses was another slow motion movement of time. Time seemed to slow but brain waves moved fast and thoughts passed quickly with a peppered rhythm. "How did that just happen? Where am I? My Dad is going to kill me! What a perfect ending to a ridiculously rotten day! I can’t believe I lived through that! I can’t believe I am not bleeding or broken somewhere! What do I do now? How am I going to get home?"
The car had stopped vibrating and rocking. The quiet was very intense; the setting surreal. I had been over this road a hundred or so times, but nothing looked familiar. The perspective of the surroundings, sitting in the dirt with a car sporting a flattened roof was nothing if not bizarre. I was aware as my heart rate pounded and a fight or flight adrenaline spike was going on fast and furious. Furious is a term which vibrated in me as my mind continued to contemplate the consequences of my irresponsible driving.
In a matter of minutes faces of men I didn’t know, couldn’t look in their eyes, would never see again, were coming to my aid. The car was upright; if the momentum had carried it one more roll, it might have landed on top of me. Guardian angels were attending my lowly person on this dramatic day, this dramatic event in my life. The car landed askew on a field edge, the manicured build up of dirt to keep irrigation water from leaking and then flooding out of the field. The car was high centered a bit, needing to be pulled from the raised barrier. A thoughtful gentleman brought his tractor and proceeded to pull the car to position in the roadway in the direction it was supposed to have been going.
The roof of the car was more dented on the passenger side which is probably one of the guardian angel aspects of the rollover, that more forceful damage occurred on that side more than the driver’s side. I could get into the car and start the engine which had not received any death blows and I could decidedly continue driving the conveyance the remainder of the two miles to my house, but dreading getting there. Again the thoughts shooting through my mind were "My Dad is going to kill me! This is going to put a crimp in my driving to school. This is just awful! I am SO miserable, adding more trauma to my horrible day. I am SO scared to announce to Dad that I have just wrecked a perfectly good car. It was running so well and I ruined it. My Dad is going to kill me!" And so it was that the time it takes to drive a mile or two seemed like an eternity filled with self-accusation and recriminations. It was with incredible angst of having to own up to neglect of awareness, neglect of duty, neglect of responsibility. It was a painful awareness of one’s serious flaws and despicable-ness. Two miles of driving a flat-roofed symbol of one’s stupidity was indeed a long distance.
Pulling into the long driveway of my house, I hoped the error of my ways would be noticed so I could merely melt into obscurity without having to face anyone. Alas, there was no one to notice that the car had indeed severely changed shape since I had mindlessly driven it away to school early in the day. There had been many other problematic factors contributing to my overall disturbed mind set, including and highlighted by the fact that I had forgotten part of my band uniform necessary to wear for a parade which had gone on in spite of the fact that I was not up to code. I thought the parade forgetfulness and trauma was the culmination to my terrible day, until I had to go home with a flattened car and make confessions to Dad.
The drive home in the afternoon consisted of a mindless manipulation of car function. I was mechanically operating the vehicle feeling miserable and wretched. I had ended up after the parade on the north side of town. The dirt road was not one I usually traversed going home. In my wretchedness I wasn’t paying attention to the curve in the road or the speed I was going. Going around a gravelly curve too fast was a lesson in physics I have never forgotten. Speed and marble-y objects on a curve can cause a heavy object to flip over. I have ever since been very cautious and nervous on gravel roads with curves.
At home I was afraid to find Dad; it was hard to own up to something that I knew was yet another drain on his resources. It was also a matter of letting him take over the burden. I had driven home feeling a burden of guilt, the weight of a bad experience. It was a relief to give it over to him, to let him take care of it, to take care of me. He was a soft touch, especially for tears. For as big a man as he was and as in charge of things as he was at his job, he could be very kind hearted and tender with his kids.
I went to my room in tears and he went to size up the car. It was in sad shape, never to be as cool as it was before I wrecked it. Dad was very gracious and understanding. He probably had had many close calls in his time of driving fast on rough roads. He had a well known reputation for how he wrangled the bypasses of canal levies on his job as Watermaster in the Reclamation Bureau. He also did amazing work with cars and welding. He took off the flattened roof with his welding expertise and it was a convertible for a while. The motor went into another Ford body, not nearly as cool as the first.
Other than feeling like a completely useless human being, having a car wreck and a terribly bad day, there was a singular jewel in the lot. The gift I was given was that Dad expressed to me that he was greatly relieved I wasn’t hurt. He was glad that my miserable, idiotic, lower than pond scum, despicable self had been preserved from harm. He was grateful I was okay and I was supremely grateful he could let me know what was important to him in spite of causing him the added burden. It was a blessed gift that stays in memory.
2 comments:
What a wonderful story. I have a similar one about my dad--the time when I broke one of his Christensen angels--he was very understanding and sweet in that moment when I felt like crawling into a cave and rotting. Thank Heavens for nice daddies!
Nice parents are gifts Heavenly Father gives us or makes of us, if we allow Him to polish off the rough edges of our native tendencies.
Mom in NEAZ
Post a Comment