It was November 15, 1972 when I was in my first and only auto collision. I was leaving my girlfriend’s house at dusk, right at the time when you could still legally drive without headlights, but prudent drivers turned them on as soon as the sun hit the horizon. She lived on a busy road. I looked both ways and I pulled out without seeing the un-illuminated car coming at me at 45 MPH.
The sound of the crash was surprisingly loud. I also remember the wall of broken glass hitting me like a bucket of tiny ice cubes. Broken glass was all over my hair and clothing. My baby blue, four month old Grand Torino Sport had been creamed. It wasn’t totaled. It needed a new driver side door and a rear quarter panel. Though it was fixed seeming as good as new I found glass to vacuum each time I cleaned the car after that.
Since then I’ve been a cautious driver. It was then that I realized the concept of mortality, a lesson that doesn’t normally come to most males until later in life. So, Auntie, I am immune to your taunts regarding my driving.