I remember it was a warm evening for February. I drove with the windows down all the way through town, and under the underpass near the railroad tracks--the same underpass that was notorious for catching trucks whose drivers weren't thinking about the height of their vehicles until it was suddenly too late.
My roommate, Angela, and I drove out of town and on to the winding gravel side roads… I don't recall--now some 30 years later--much else except that I wrecked my car. I knocked down a few trees and went through a fence. I think the windshield was busted, the roof and a door was caved in and the car had to be towed.
I think we were probably both just limber enough that evening to avoid injury.
The police came, no tickets were issued and no ambulances were called. A friend of my came by in the midst of all this and gave us a ride to my boyfriend's house.
I know that it took 3 or 4 weeks to repair my car. During that time, I borrowed my boyfriend's car and/or van to get back and forth to my job at the local newspaper.
I asked my mother, just this morning, what she recalled about this particular incident. She said she knew alcohol must have been involved because Angela and I were always drinking and getting into things.
I don't recall having that conversation, 30 years ago. I asked her--point blank--did she say anything to that effect, when I had the accident.
"No," she said. "Because it wouldn't have made any difference."