133 Help! My Boat’s Sinking!

Normally we would have our heating oil and fuel dropped off by a tanker from town. But as we had run out of heating oil before the tanker was due to arrive my dad sent me to the store to pick up a barrel of stove oil.

The old flat bottomed clinker built was more then adequate to hall a barrel of fuel oil, it however had seen better days and one of the side planks had split and was now held together with iron rods that did not completely prevent it from taking on water.

It was only a couple of miles if that far to the store so I fired up the small Wisconsin engine, tossed in an empty forty-five gallon barrel and off I went to the Read Island Store and Post Office. I arrived about a half hour later at the Read Island wharf and went up and got Mr. Hill where he was working at the store. He came back with me to the wharf and filled my barrel with heating oil.

After thanking him, I immediately took off for home, but noticed quickly that with the added weight of the full barrel of heating oil, the boat seemed to be taking on water at an alarming rate. I didn’t have a decent bucket to bail with and was doing the best I could with what I had. The bottom line was that I was not keeping up and the boat was slowly sinking. This sent shivers of fear up and down my spine as I realized I did not have a life jacket and the water was very cold.

I was not far from shore and I realized that my only hope was to beach the boat. The nearest place to beach the boat and prevent it from sinking altogether was a beach in front of my friend Ron Lambert’s house. So without any hesitation I made straight for his beach with the throttle wide open and the boat now seemingly filling up with water faster then ever. The timing was miraculous as just as the boat was about to go under, it scraped to a stop on the bottom, and boy did I give a sigh of relief.

My friend Ron, who had seen what was happening from the shore came running down to the beach and gave me a hand. We were able to bail the skiff out and with much effort roll the barrel of oil out of the boat and into the water. As oil is much lighter then sea water the barrel floated so I was able to tie a rope around it and tow it the rest of the way home.

It is fun to look back on the happenings of yesterday and it was only recently that Ron and I were laughing about my efforts to get that barrel of oil home. At the time however, it did not seem like a laughing matter, but the passing of time gives us the freedom to see things in a different light.

132 Memories of a Loved One

It was August 26, 2004 and just another day on the road for my nephew, Dean Ganson, as he climbed into the big Peterbuilt at Terrace, to take over for a spell from his friend Dick Brown who had just come in from Prince Rupert with his trailer loaded with live crab bound for San Francisco. This was to be a quick trip, at least for Dean as he was fitting it in between his regular scheduled runs, and time was of the essence.

It could have been his father, in the sleeper, but as he was unable to find the time needed to make this extra run he had passed the opportunity on to Dean who jumped at the chance to make a few more bucks.

Both Dean and Dick were quite used to the monotony of such a run and it was now just shortly before 4:50 am on Friday, August 27, and Dick was once again at the wheel. After talking with his wife Dean decided to get a little shuteye so was back in the sleeper resting up for his next turn at the wheel.

It was turning into just another routine run and they were well on their way just twenty five kilometers north of Williams Lake near McLeese Lake and keeping well to their schedule.

Farther south things were not going so well for David Hart, the driver of a semi loaded with inflammables and headed for Prince George. Even as early as 2:10 am that Friday morning, he was seen flying through Cache Creek doing ninety kilometers an hour. This was just the beginning of a scenario that was to end in disaster as David Hart, who was now high on both cocaine and methamphetamine, crossed the centerline and forced a police cruiser, and then a series of vehicles onto the shoulder of the road, to escape a head on collision with his semi.

Constable Jensen stated that David Hart stayed on his side of the road between approaching vehicles but as soon as one would appear he would cross the centerline and force it off the road. The dilemma was how to get David Hart off the highway without anyone getting killed as his semi was now traveling at one hundred and twenty kilometers per hour and by this time he had forced at least twenty vehicles off the road.

It was now 4:50 that Friday morning, when the inevitable happened as David Hart who on rounding a corner swung abruptly into the oncoming path of the big Peterbuilt driven by Dick Brown with Dean Ganson now sound asleep in the cab.

The resulting inferno that erupted from the collision closed the road that Friday morning for hours as the two trucks were literally incinerated with everything in them. They burned until there was nothing left but the metal.

The pain of such a tragedy and the resulting effects it has had on the people left behind was profound and was at least partly responsible for the early admittance of his mother, Dawna, into a care home.

The memorial service in the little church at Terrace left memories that I have never forgotten to this day. It was obvious that the small town of Terrace was moved by the tragedy. The Terrace Church was packed, not only with family and aquaintenances, but also by many from the surrounding community.

I still feel the pain of that moment and will never forget the heartache caused by the senseless act of a madman that Friday morning on Highway 97 when two semis met head-on.

131 Having Good Times at Our Fiftieth

Having made it to fifty years gives a person a sense of accomplishment, but as my son in-law Raymond says, “It’s just another day so what’s the big deal.” That’s assuming you got there without a struggle. Just let me say, all families have a secret, and ours is, it wasn’t always a cakewalk, but the good times by far out-weighed the bad, and the rewards are many. All you had to do was just look around and see all of the family and friends that chose to celebrate with us, which of course, was really the only meaningful reason for the event. It was, and is, what makes life’s journey the wonder and joy that it is.

I knew we were in for a super event when I heard my daughter Teri discussing the details of the occasion with her mother months before it was to begin. I figured then that anything to the contrary was useless on my part, and I might just as well keep quiet and just let it happen, as even by then, it seemed to be taking on a life of it’s own.

Teri is not inclined to do anything halfway and I knew she could pull it off in fine style but I would just as soon have been one of the guests as the center of attention. Being appreciated is fine but during such an event it is quite easy to overdue the bonhomie and as it is I’m now set for life.

I could tell that Teri was on top of the event from the very beginning as she was wise enough to solicit Bev Rippin’s talents and advise and to put Darrell Sayler in as the caterer. The event had such amazing people give of their time such as the Kettner’s and the many others who served and slaved in the kitchen and with the cleanup.

Both Joyce and Claude brought back such sweet memories of times past that the joyful emotions came very close to the surface as I relived them again. Joyce does an amazing job on putting life’s happenings into the poetic, and Claude always has such a way with words that I relived again our days out in the bush camping.

I appreciated everyone who got up especially Becky who shared such kind words about us as parents of her beloved and our son Bobby. It was also nice when Dan Johnson and my old boyhood chum Ron Lambert, as well as Bob Switak brought to life many of the memories of times past. 


It is an understatement to say that the tables looked gorgeous and that the food was par excellent. It was the first time that I ever saw a photo on a cake that looked so real that it could be eaten, and in fact it was.

I have to say that Meagan’s voice is so sweet and the songs that she sang so meaningful that I must give her an extra hug the next time that I see her. And as my good friend Leon says, “Where did Meagan get such good looks, it must have been from her father?” Just a joke Teri!

In closing I have to thank everyone who said that they enjoyed the slideshow, as I literally put in hours to make it happen, and I must thank Eric for his help.

As I said in the church bulletin, “We were more then overjoyed that you came to celebrate with us. You may have overdone it on the kissing thing but we forgive you and really appreciated your coming to wish us well. You are all cordially invited for our hundredth so keep a slot open on you calendar for 2061/09/09, Love, Bob & Sandy.

130 Making Big Bucks in the Herring

The herring fisheries was one of the big money makers of the season and one all fisherman looked forward too, my dad being no exception. Working at a government job meant a steady paycheck but not one that afforded a lot of luxuries. It was more on my part and not so much my dad’s that I suggested he let me join him on the ’79 herring fisheries in March of that year, for a chance at some extra money. I quite willingly hung the herring net that he gave me as he said it was part of the requirement if I really wanted to become part of the team. I never checked to see what the rest of the crew had to do to get hired, as I was only too happy just to be able to get an opportunity to make some extra money. 

Taking a leave of absence from my job at the Pacific Forestry Service was easy enough and on Mar 1 I showed up at Tofino where we waited impatiently five or six days at dock for the season to open. We lived on Lindley Jacobson’s boat, Eventide, as he and my dad were partners in the herring fishery. It was with great anticipation that we sat at the dock waiting for the herring row to mature, as herring row is an anticipated delicacy in the Japanese economy and has to be harvested at just the right moment. It is a short fishery, but brings huge bucks to the fishing industry as in one month many fishermen can exceed $100,000.

My Dad with Joe and myself in our aluminum herring skiff along with his partner Lindley Jacobson and his crew of two in their skiff, stayed tuned to the radio for the signal to throw in the herring nets, every second missed could mean the loss of big bucks.

After the countdown the horn sounded and what a mad scramble as by this time it was dark and nets were being laid everywhere. One joker even laid one across ours and we had to reset to a different location. It was pure chaos as in the dark no one could see exactly what was going on. After an hour or so things seemed to settle down and in the dark the straight looked like a city with thousands of lights as everyone moved about working their nets and jockeying at times for a more strategic spot.

Every few hour we had to shake the nets and watch the fish shake out into the bins in the bottom of the boat. Each skiff had a mechanical shaker to assist in the shaking, but I felt sorry for Lindley’s deck hand Eric Smith as his hands swelled up like puffballs because they were not used to the stress. When he moved them they made a funny squeaking sound. I am sure Eric was happy when the horn sounded just after daybreak the next morning to signal the close of the opening.

In their greed some fishermen would fish more than their one allowed net and leave the second net in the water after the horn sounded rather then get caught picking it up. It was less expensive to leave the extra net then to pay the fine if caught.

My dad had left his boat at Comox ready for the next opening, so we were able to beat it across the island just in time to throw our net in the water as the opening horn sounded. It was another night of hard work, but I can still remember the excitement as I watched the bins in the bottom of the boat fill up as we frantically shook the gilled fish out of the nets. What fun it is to watch the money rolling in one fish at a time.

The fish collectors paid cash for each delivery. I remember quite clearly when my dad counted $3000 in twenties and placed them in my hot little hand.

Lindley missed the opening, as he had to bring his boat around from Tofino, but as my dad and he were fishing as partners they split all the profits.

After hanging around Nanaimo for a few days we headed up to the Queen Charlotte Islands for the last opening of the herring season in the Skincuttle Inlet on Moresby, the south Island. We along with dozens of other herring fishermen booked passage on an old charter ship the Mara Bella. The skiffs were towed up on a barge and we all waited impatiently for the opening to begin. Wouldn’t you know the opening came on a Sabbath so we only caught the last half of the opening.

The month finally ended and we were on our way home. After arriving in Milbank Sound on the Mara Bella I caught a ride with James Wakus to Port Hardy where I jumped on a plane to Vancouver and then on to Victoria as I could hardly wait to see my Honey after several weeks at sea.

I was glad when my days as a herring fisherman were ended, however it was nice to pick up $6000 for the three nights that I worked during the month of March. I will never forget that experience and the fun I had as part of the herring crew on my dad’s skiff.

129 Catch Me If You Can

One of the better places to camp back in the early ‘70’s was out on the west coast at Pachena Bay. The only negative about this place was that it was quite an ordeal to get there, as the only way other then by boat was to drive on logging roads that were not always well maintained.

Today except for the older generation, most people can’t conceive of what it was like to drive on gravel, but as anyone that has, knows, you are either covered with a fine muddy spray or with volumes of dust, depending on the weather.

Pachena was one of Claude’s favorite spots and it soon became ours, but neither of us particularly liked to travel in each other’s dust. This called for one or the other waiting until the distance between the two vehicles was such that the clouds of dust had time to settle.

Using the above strategy we had made it out to the beach that holiday weekend without any mishap and minimal dust only to find that the fog that usually hangs off shore had moved into the bay and the sun was now hidden in a blanket of dense fog. It goes without saying that the beach at Pachena Bay is one of the finest sand beaches on the west coast but with no sun and a wet drizzle because of the fog bank it was not an inviting place to spend the holiday.

One night of fog and drizzle was more then enough so the next morning we left for the Gordon Bay campsite on the south side of Cowichan Lake at Honeymoon Bay.

I led in the trip back while Claude followed as planned using the don’t eat my dust protocol, the error in strategy proved to be that I took a wrong turn and Claude inadvertently passed me in his haste to not be left to far behind. Claude was virtually flying as he tried
to catch me, not realizing that I was now virtually flying in my haste to catch him. At times I could actually see him as we raced through some of the open clear cuts on our way back to Gordon Bay and the campsite.

The foolishness of the situation was not fully realized until after as what difference did it make when and where either of us made it to the campsite at Gordon Bay as we were to wait there regardless.

128 The Summer of ‘57

The summer holidays for me were always a time of excitement as I always looked forward to our trips south to visit family and friends. The summer of ’57 after my junior year at Laurelwood Academy was one with some anticipation and maybe a little apprehension, as my dad had taken a job in the romantic Chilcotin country of BC. Even though our house had not yet been moved to Vancouver Island, I knew it meant the close of my life as a “gypo” logger’s son. I had known all along that at some point in my life I would have to leave my island home but this made it abruptly final. My Read Island life, as I had known it was now a thing of the past, and I felt sad and cast a drift.

So that summer I found myself workings in a “gypo sawmill” run by the Robson Brothers. If my dad was a “gypo logger” their operation had to be for sure the “gypoist” sawmill I have ever seen. This was back in the days when little sawmills were thick all over the interior of BC. You could easily find such a sawmill from the plume of smoke that rose from its beehive burner.

All sawmills took care of the waste wood and sawdust from their operations by using a beehive burner as a method of waste disposal but because of the poor design of the Robson Brothers’ sawmill it required someone to grab the waste slabs as they came off the head saw and physically drag them onto the chain belt that carried them into the top of the burner. This was heavy work and very physically demanding, as you had to keep up with the head saw.

A further challenge was running up the slab chute every time a slab got stuck. It was extremely onerous when it happened over the burner where the heat from the roaring inferno sent up clouds of ash and very hot smoke, which would singe your eyebrows and make your breathing difficult. This happened so often, that it made slab removal a real challenge.

I particularly remember one day when my nose started to bleed and I found myself in a real dilemma. I was thankful that someone noticed my predicament and in a few moments gave me time to take care of it.

I eventually got used to the job but I hated the evenings sitting alone in my little trailer. It made me feel like a quitter but that did not stop me from getting a job a few weeks later at Dan Basaraba’s sawmill. His was a much bigger mill and a far better operation. He didn’t have work for me in the mill but I was given a job lopping tops. Lopping tops was the pits, but camp life after work was fun as there were plenty of girls and guys in the camp, some were students like myself.

The bunkhouse had bunks with only a mattress pad on a solid wooden base to sleep on, and no running water. We were given a galvanized washtub to bathe in once a week, and it sat in the middle of the bunkhouse floor. The bath water was heated on the barrel woodstove that heated the room. All of the houses in camp including our bunkhouse were made of rough unpainted boards form the mill and insulated with sawdust.

Times were primitive; and we worked nine hours every day except for Saturday and a half day Friday. What made it all worthwhile was the food. It was said that the Ukrainian cook was gay but that sure did not affect his ability to cook. Boy did he ever make the best tasting jalopies that I have ever eaten. When the dinner bell rang everyone rushed to the mess hall to dive in. I never ate so much in my life, I ate till I thought I would burst.

I still remember the weekend’s rodding around in the back seat of Gerald Odenbaugh’s ’56 pale green Mercury, full of kids, and with my arm around Ina Hoppe in the back seat. Ina went on to marry Johnny Urema and they had a boy and a girl and still live in Williams Lake. I remember Johnny for the special fudge bars he used to buy by the case, and if you treated him right, you might beg one off of him. He also had a cool tape deck, which we used to fool around with. It was a reel-to-reel deck and a real novelty back in those days.

The best part of the summer was when the gang had a good-by party for me. Twilla Basaraba put it on mostly for Jim Burgess her boy friend, but they also included me. Jim happened to be away for some reason the evening of the party, so I received all of the attention. That was good. But I left a day or so later with a sad heart because of all of the friends I had to leave, but I also had a bit of an ache for Ina, which I followed up with a single post card but nothing more. It was a summer I will always remember with fondness because of the friends I made and the part they played in enabling my life to continue in a new direction.

It was now back to Laurelwood for my last year of boarding school and what lay beyond.

127 Hot Shot Skier

Learning to ski on homemade skis did not make me the greatest skier in the world, but I became good enough to think that I could ski. However it was not with enough skill to ski with the hotshots on the mogul slope. As a matter of fact I usually had to start my day on the bunny hill with the beginners, as the frequency of my endeavors was so few and far between that I had to relearn each time I made the attempt.

It was with mixed feelings that I decided to go along on the annual Laurelwood ski trip. The closest ski hill was on Mt Hood at the Timberline Lodge. This was a majestic ski lodge on the lower slopes of the picturesque volcano and a great place to ski, if you could.

I did not have the necessary gear for the mountain, but skis and poles could be readily rented at the lodge and before I knew it I was on the slopes in the latest leather ski boots.

I don’t think Don Ringering was any better at skiing then I was so we both headed over to the bunny hill where all the nube’s in desperation come for a quick lesson on how to survive the slope. Don and I considered ourselves skiers, so forget the lessons, just a couple runs down the gentle slopes of the bunny hill and we would be ready to take off with the big boys.

After floundering around on the bunny hill for a couple of hours, Don finally says, “That’s enough of this, we’re ready, let’s do it.” And I said, “If you think so, why not?” So off we went to the ski lift where all of the hot shot skiers with their latest gear come strutting by, where cool is cool.

I really felt out of place as my gear consisted of dorky rental boots, a pair of regular pants tucked into my wool socks, a jacket that was far from being a ski jacket, some make-due leather gloves, a tuque and no goggles. The two of us were a matched pair and hoped not to be noticed as we climbed onto our chair and tried to assume the air of experience. But getting on the lift was far from cool.

The real challenge was now ahead, how was I to get off, cool was now the farthest thing from my mind, and at this point it was replaced by survival. My knuckles were white and I was breathing faster then normal with my heart racing. When suddenly it seemed as if the chair was speeding up, and I suddenly got a real slap in the butt; as in desperation I leaped clear. This sends me careening wildly out of control and into some skiers going by. Looking around I see that Don has made it much to my relief.

To gain more confidence we chose some easy slopes that required no slalom techniques. Our strategy was to head straight down the slope and run out of speed before we ran out of hill and into disaster. After whiling away most of the day doing this boredom run, even the chair lift had lots it’s challenge, I thought it now time to try some more advanced techniques, things we were watching the big boys do. I particularly thought it was so cool to watch how they could come whizzing to a stop in a blinding shower of snow.

At this point my confidence had risen to a potentially dangerous level, not only for me but also, for anyone within range. I was a latent disaster, as they say waiting to happen. I do not know where Don was on this crucial run; but I resolved to carry it our regardless.

I can still remember whizzing down the slope and at just the last moment when I reached the bottom trying to enact the procedure as I had seen the hot shots do. But that was not about to happen, not today. I hit the deck so fast that my head was spinning. My skis were both jammed in the snow so far that I couldn’t pull them out. The seat of my pants was ripped right out and I was in such a twisted heap that I couldn’t release my boots. To make things worse the pain was so excruciating, that I thought I had ripped my legs out of their sockets. So here I was lying in this twisted heap my skis stuck firmly in the snow and I couldn’t free my boots from the skis.

I don’t know if I was fortunate or not as there did not happen to be anyone nearby to see me, but it must have taken me ten minutes to free myself, and for the rest of the day I could hardly ski because of the pain.

126 Alaska Cruise

One would not think that being bumped from a flight to Phoenix would lead to anything good. You be judge as the following story happened just as told.

Friends hearing of our plans to travel to Puerto Vallarta offered their condo at half the going rate. That was good, what wasn’t so good was getting suckered into signing up for a special tour package through Gold Crown Resorts, which I guess wasn’t all that bad as by signing up, along with some other goodies, we got a free Alaska Cruise.

We heard that our friends, Ed and Shirley Oakley, were going on a cruise to Alaska with Sage, a church group that does good deeds. We decided it would be nice to travel with friends so we departed from Seattle with them one beautiful Friday morning under a sunny blue sky, and a light breeze to begin what turned out to be a once in a lifetime adventure. Why do I say once in a lifetime adventure? Well, just say I hope at least part of the trip only happens once in my lifetime.

Sabbath was a relaxing time and after an inspiring Sabbath School we listened to stories told by Joe Wheeler, a renowned storyteller, invited by Sage to entertain while on the cruise.

The first stop on our trip after crossing the open water of Queen Charlotte Sound was a stop at the historic town of Juneau Alaska. What need I say about Juneau except that Old Town Juneau is situated on the slag from the early mining days and because of the crude mining techniques back then, probably has millions of dollars buried beneath it’s streets. Other then that, it is basically a tourist trap, but I must say quite unique and interesting. Also in it’s defense it does have beautiful Mendenhall glacier just north of town, at least what is left of it, as with all of Alaska’s glaciers, it is melting rapidly and will be no more in a matter of years.

Ed, Shirley and I were still in the interpretive center watching mountain goats climbing the rocks above the glacier when I suddenly looked at my watch and realized it was time for the tour bus to head back to the ship. We ran like crazy to catch the bus and if the aboriginal driver had not waited for us we would still be at the glacier. He was a most interesting fellow and told us all about his people and their lifestyle. I was sorry when the ride and his story ended.

Our next stop was the most famous town of the gold rush days, known as Skagway, the beginning of the most rigorous trek for miners of any gold rush in history, the famous Chilkoot Trail. Literally thousands of miners headed for the gold fields of the Klondike, each required by Canada law to carry one ton of supplies over White Pass, so they would not starve during the coming winter.

Again in spite of the town being another tourist trap, because of its history and unique setting, Sandy and I found it quite fascinating to browse the shops and travel up to the summit at White Pass on the narrow gage rail in the footsteps of the thousands of miners, who risked it all for the dream of making it big in the gold fields of the Klondike.

The shops in Juneau and Skagway had all of the usual made in China touristy stuff for sale at very low prices, except for the artsy stuff made by the indigenous peoples of Alaska, and then the price was out of sight. We took advantage of this and bought two matching and very nice winter jackets made in China, of course.

After Skagway we went up Tracy Arm hoping to see Sawyer Glacier, one of the most popular calving glaciers in Alaska, but because it was so early in the season, the Captain refused to travel the last few miles because of ice. The view of Tracy Arm however was quite spectacular, and maybe on our next cruise we will get to see a glacier calve. We did however take many fine pictures of the surrounding crags, as the Rhapsody of the Sea slowly turned in mid-channel for our return trip.

One could have a grand time by never leaving the ship, as there were always plenty of things to do on board. The casino was always busy and there were shows every evening, plus things happening all over the boat during most of the day and evening. You could eat yourself silly or just relax.

Sandy was a fan of Ricky Nelson and was thrilled when she found out that the twins Gunner and Mathew Nelson were performing one evening. She felt that she really scored when I took her picture while she stood between them.

We were fortunate that even though the weather was cool, we had beautiful sunshine for the sightseeing trips at Juneau and Skagway but it was obvious that a change was taking place in the weather as we left Tracy Arm. I feared for a rough night on the ocean as an ominous sea greeted us as we left Frederick Sound and headed into open water.

My fears were well taken, as the evening’s show in the theater was halted part way through for the safety of the performers and the next thing to go was the chocolate extravaganza that Sandy was anticipating.

About this time I went on deck to catch the excitement of the storm with my video camera. I quickly ducked back in as I feared the salt spray would destroy my video camera as it felt like being sprayed full force with a garden hose. I then went to one of the open upper decks and the wind in the rigging sounded like a thousand banshees screaming to be set free. It was shortly after this that the forward buffet closed so Sandy and I decided to call it quits for the evening.

It wasn’t long after this that the captain sent a message over the room’s cable service telling about the severity of the upcoming Pacific front that we were fast approaching. The rest of the night was a ring-tailed-spinner as we sort of rolled around in bed the whole night, hoping we would not get tossed out onto the floor of our cabin. The next morning some of the shops looked in shambles as things were scattered everywhere. The Captain informed us that through the night we had survived eighty-mile winds with waves thirty to forty feet. That makes it the first hurricane that I have survived at sea.

It was nice to wake up in Victoria to a calm sea, but my day was going to be far from what I had hoped it would be. While the rest of the ship went ashore and did the tourist thing in Victoria I stayed in my bunk.

During most of the trip the crew could be seen wiping any and every surface with disinfectant as we were told there was a stomach bug present. This was also obvious as there were sanitation stations at every doorway and at the entrance to every restaurant where a crewmember would ask you to hold out your hand for a quick squirt. Wouldn’t you know, I woke up in Victoria not feeling so well, and for the rest of the day ran between the bed and the commode doing the dippy bird routine. It was a toss-up as to which end to place in, on, or over the facility first. Well as they say the rest is history as our friends, the Oakley’s, departed the ship in Victoria and we went on to disembark at Seattle the next morning, and then to my son’s place for a few days in Walla Walla.

125 The Ditch is No Place for a Car

A good way to shorten ones experience this side of eternity is to fall asleep at the wheel. I often wander why we persist in driving when we are so sleepy that we can’t hold our eyes open, even with toothpicks. It would be so simple if we would just give the steering wheel to someone else for ten or fifteen minute. How many of us persist in driving in a literal fog while our minds cry out for the luxury of sleep. Oh how we hunger for just a few moments of shut-eye. Maybe if we just focused harder we could keep our eyes open. Suddenly our head snaps back and our glassy eyes open and peer into the darkness ahead, no, our eyes didn’t open, we were staring ahead with our eyes wide open not seeing a thing. And why is that yellow line on the right side of the road? Whew got over just in time, I didn’t know semis looked so big. Sure was a close one.

How many of us will not give up the wheel for love nor money, because we are too darn stubborn to pull over and take a short nap? We flagellate our poor brains into keeping our heavy eyelids from closing, hoping we can make it to a comfortable warm bed, when far to often it ends up being a slab in a near-by morgue.

Studies have shown that there is a rise of single car accidents in the early afternoon and again in the small hours of the morning, directly related to our diurnal rhythms, yet we carry on without a thought.

Even though this was not the early hours of the morning I was clearly ignoring all the signs that pointed to a speedy trip into the hereafter, as I nodded in and out of sleep during those last fifteen minutes of our trip to our son’s wedding.

Sandy and I had been on the road for over six hours and it was just a few minutes before midnight and only five minutes from Bobby’s door that in my sub conscious state I noticed a change in the rhythm of the road. This caused my eyes to snap suddenly open and I realized we had veered off the pavement and I was now staring strait at the stop sign of a side street. Sandy, who was sound asleep, yelled out, “What’s the matter!”

I answered, “Don’t worry honey, we’re just going off the road.”

With that we crossed the intersection, completely taking out the stop sign, leaped the ditch, and landed in the weeds on the far side.

This all happened quicker then you could blink, obliterating my Honda Accord’s windshield and sunroof airfoil as well as taking out my left turn signal and damaging the front bumper so it had to be replaced.

I contacted the appropriate authorities and was fortunate that I did not have to pay for replacing the pulverized stop sign.

It could have been worse but I was able to drive out of the ditch and within five minutes we were at my son’s place, a little bit shaken, but otherwise OK. I did learn one important thing from this near disaster and have for the most part been true to my resolve to pull over when my eyelids start to get heavy. It’s amazing how we will listen to our wallet when it speaks, if nothing else catches our attention it will. In all honesty, being faced with my mortality as we sailed across the ditch had a fairly big part to play in my decision; well, maybe the biggest part as my insurance deductible was only $300.