This is the story of why I'm cautious when I cross the street—though still perhaps not as cautious as I should be. I got off easy, after all.
I was—what?—eight or nine years old? The family was living in Bountiful, Utah. I was in Cub Scouts at the time, and my den had just finished up a rehearsal for a pack meeting that was coming later in the week. My den was going to perform the flag ceremony, and we had to practice to make sure we would get it right.
My den mother was a woman named Joyce Benard, who would become my piano teacher a little later in life. A handful of us were piled into her big station wagon, and she was driving us home from the church where we had been rehearsing.
I was the first stop. Sister Benard pulled the car over to the curb across the street from my house, and I got out on the passenger side. I went around to the front of the car to cross the street. I looked both ways—but apparently I didn't poke my head far enough around the big station wagon, because as soon as I stepped out past it there came a big loud roar and a squeal of brakes, and the world went totally crazy.
I flew through the air, bounced, rolled, and slammed into the pavement. Sister Benard, ashed-faced, exited her car and ran to me, as did the woman who had been driving the car that hit me. My mother, having heard the squealing brakes, came running out of the house across the street.
When it became apparent that I was only stunned and not dead or seriously injured, the women helped me across the street to the lawn in front of my house. Sister Benard went inside to call an ambulance (just in case).
It turned out that the car which had hit me—a brand-new Lincoln Continental—was damaged worse than I was. I had been flung up onto the hood, where I rolled up the slope of the windshield, rolled back down, and hit the pavement. The hood of the car was dented pretty good, the antenna was bent ninety degrees right at the base, and the windshield was starred with cracks.
I, on the other hand, was sore, and I had big bruises on both knees. There was also a mysterious tire print on one of my sneakers, which no one could ever figure out. And that was about it.
Now let's flash over to the nearby fire station, which was only about three blocks away. The firemen and paramedics were all fussing over their brand-new shiny ambulance, which had yet to be taken out on a call. In fact, my father and his boss were there, too. It was summer, and during the summer my father would supplement his teacher's salary with whatever work he could get. This year it was working at a small local sheet-metal company. The head honcho at the sheet-metal company was a member of the bishopric, and he was also a volunteer fireman. Combine this with the fact that the sheet-metal company lived just around the corner from the fire station, and it's not hard to see why my dad and his boss were there, admiring the new ambulance.
But then the call from the dispatcher came in—"Boy hit by car, Second North, Code Three"—and the paramedics scrambled into the ambulance. My father, recognizing the street as the one where he lived, said dryly, "Oh, that's probably my dumb kid."
The ambulance drivers had a great time on their three-block journey. They used every different siren they had. I'm sure they were disappointed that the trip was so short.
When they arrived, they checked me over and pronounced me fine. I didn't even get a trip in the shiny new ambulance, which kind of bummed me out. But hey, there was a story in the local paper the next week about the new ambulance, and since I was the first call the ambulance responded to, I got a mention! My dad showed it to me, proudly.
Unfortunately, I was referred to only as "small boy hit by a car." What a downer! Even at that age, I was bitterly disappointed when my name didn't make it into print. Jeez, if I come that close to being killed, the least I can get out of the deal is a little notoriety, right?