{"id":2811,"date":"2015-01-23T08:21:31","date_gmt":"2015-01-23T15:21:31","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/annleemiller.com\/?p=2811"},"modified":"2015-01-23T08:21:31","modified_gmt":"2015-01-23T15:21:31","slug":"car-crash-wrecks","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/annleemiller.com\/2015\/01\/car-crash-wrecks\/","title":{"rendered":"Car Crash and Other Wrecks"},"content":{"rendered":"
\"Photo<\/a>

Photo by Gonzalo Barr<\/p><\/div>\n

I pedaled after Dad, each downward push of my legs drawing me closer to meeting his wacko friends.<\/p>\n

Overhead a storm brewed. With my luck, I\u2019d be soaked before I ever hit their house, much less swim practice later.<\/p>\n

Mom said Dad wanted to show me off to his friends. That was about as ridiculous as the cheery smile she\u2019d pasted on divorce. More likely he\u2019d told his friends his loser daughter needed their influence to \u201cstraighten up and fly right\u201d\u2014according to Dad\u2019s compass.<\/p>\n

The needle on Dad\u2019s compass had a lot of play in finding true North, but it always hovered near weird. One visit potatoes were Satan. The next, cabbage was tossed onto the do-not-eat pile and potatoes were back on the menu. Holy mold grew on casseroles. He showed me a snapshot of a pile of wheelchairs and crutches next to an Arkansas backyard pool where people who took a dip got healed. TV and soap, unfortunately, always landed on the evil list. Radio, particularly the shortwave variety that wasn\u2019t monitored by Big Brother, got Dad\u2019s gold star.<\/p>\n

Regardless, I landed in a straight-backed chair in the living room of an airy bungalow.<\/p>\n

The couple, late forties like Dad, looked pretty normal. The woman wore a bra. The man\u2019s hair had been neatly clipped above his ears.<\/p>\n

But I didn\u2019t trust them. I spoke when spoken to, enough to be polite, but I knew they played for Dad\u2019s team.<\/p>\n

My mind drifted to the metal, wall-less \u201ctee-pee\u201d Dad had constructed and slept under in our back yard. I tried to peek out their kitchen windows to see if they snoozed behind their house to absorb the power of the universe like Dad did. But I couldn\u2019t crane my neck far enough.<\/p>\n

Tensions at home had risen to an all-time high during Dad\u2019s visit. I could only hope he\u2019d dismantle his campsite and bike back to Miami soon. It didn\u2019t take a genius to figure out an ex-husband and a current husband couldn\u2019t cohabitate, even if one slept in the yard.<\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a>

Photo by Diogo Tavares<\/p><\/div>\n

Dad packed his bike, light on clothing and heavy on drama. Not that he could be credited with all the undercurrents slamming around our house. Divorce only separated people geographically. All the twisty, symbiotic emotional veins still linked Mom, me, and R.J. to Dad. The thirty-some years Mom was married to Ralph never changed that.<\/p>\n

I managed to exit the bungalow, bike home, and pile into the Duster for the drive to Halifax Swim Association before the sky doused Daytona.<\/p>\n

I drove forty-five down rain-slicked Nova Road. No time to drive five miles under the speed limit like my father and stepfather did on dry streets\u2014funny to finally find something the two had in common. In fifteen minutes pool water would wash the awkward from the afternoon.<\/p>\n

I motored toward the Beville Road intersection, grateful for the green light.<\/p>\n

\"Photo<\/a>

Photo by gracey<\/p><\/div>\n

A lipstick-red Porsche ran the stoplight into the intersection directly in front of me.<\/p>\n

I slammed on the brakes and skidded across wet street.<\/p>\n

Like a slow motion take, my bumper plowed into the Porsche\u2019s rear-end.<\/p>\n

I spun out of the intersection and came to a stop straddling the corner.<\/p>\n

Stunned, I watched the Porsche land kitty-corner at the convergence of six lanes, a matchbox car tossed away by its toddler. The driver climbed out, flipped up the hood of his windbreaker, and strode to the opposite corner.<\/p>\n

Thinking about how cars crashed, then blew up, on TV, I turned off the lights and ignition on autopilot and scrambled out of the car.<\/p>\n

Rain dribbled out of gray sky as the blue lights of a police car throbbed down Beville.<\/p>\n

I stood under a seeping pine tree and buried my hands in the pockets of my sweatshirt.<\/p>\n

\"pierre-alain<\/a>

pierre-alain m\u00fcnger<\/a> via Compfight<\/a> cc<\/a><\/p><\/div>\n

The mangled front of the family Chrysler scowled at me as though the accident were my fault.<\/p>\n

My thoughts jumbled. I\u2019d miss swim practice. Even with insurance, accidents cost a lot. Maybe I wouldn\u2019t be competing for a long time. I shivered, wishing I were swimming a 500 in the toasty pool instead of watching a policeman hike toward me.<\/p>\n

I told him my version of the accident. But how could a sixteen-year-old kid\u2019s word with a worn out Chrysler possibly win over a guy whose pant creases I could see from across the street?<\/p>\n

The officer asked if I\u2019d had my lights on.<\/p>\n

Of course. Who drove in the rain without them? I was a good little Brownie, always doing what I was taught\u2014like turning off the lights whenever I got out of the car.<\/p>\n

Too bad I couldn\u2019t shove my Brownie-ness in the same direction as Dad\u2019s compass needle.<\/p>\n

But something essential\u2014intellect or self-will or whatever it was that made me Ann\u2014refused to die. I\u2019d never be Dad\u2019s mini-me.<\/p>\n

By spring our Duster\u2019s wrinkles had been worked out and mostly paid for by insurance.<\/p>\n

I sat in a Daytona Beach courtroom, jiggling my knee, waiting to tell the judge my version of the accident.<\/p>\n

Three hot college boys lined up single file in front of the podium. Each had been arrested for indecent exposure when he got drunk and urinated off a hotel balcony during Spring Break.<\/p>\n

\"Photo<\/a>

Photo by hotblack<\/p><\/div>\n

My shoulders relaxed and I hid a grin behind my hand.<\/p>\n

After the three-piece-suited Porsche driver told his tale\u2014I repeated what I\u2019d said to the policeman.<\/p>\n

The judge thanked me and decided the Porsche driver had been at fault.<\/p>\n

A couple days after my accident Dad had stowed his teepee. He stood on our front stoop, leveled his gaze on me, and declared, \u201cYou hate me, don\u2019t you?\u201d<\/p>\n

The serrated steel of Dad\u2019s words plowed through the doors and windows of my person.<\/p>\n

Maybe I didn\u2019t like<\/em> Dad, but I loved him. I wasn\u2019t mean to him, but he must have picked up on my dread of spending time with him.<\/p>\n

Old hurts crunched with new ones in a pileup I couldn\u2019t separate into then and now. This second crash in a few days came four years after the mashup of Mom and Dad\u2019s marriage.<\/p>\n

He got on his bike and pedaled for Miami, our wreckage strewn across the lawn.<\/p>\n

For over forty years I believed I would have been crushed under Dad\u2019s fathering during my teens if I hadn\u2019t been delivered by divorce.<\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a>

Photo by Liane Metzler<\/p><\/div>\n

But what if my parents\u2019 marriage and my relationship with Dad had been salvaged like the family Duster?<\/p>\n

I\u2019d extrapolated Dad\u2019s parenting when I was in elementary school into what kind of father he would have been to a teen. But maybe he would have lightened up like most parents.<\/p>\n

Maybe our mutual love of competitive swimming could have served as the body shop for our father-daughter relationship. Maybe we would have been forced to work the wrinkles out if we\u2019d lived under the same roof.<\/p>\n

Instead of regret for what might have been, I think about the Charlie Peacock lyric<\/a> that says if I meet Dad again, we\u2019ll only see what\u2019s right.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

If you\u2019d like to leave a comment, share an insight you\u2019ve had about your parent(s).<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\"Photo<\/a>

Photo by nacu<\/p><\/div>\n

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\"Photo<\/a>

Photo by Alvimann<\/p><\/div>\n

Related posts about New Smyrna Beach:<\/strong><\/p>\n

Friendless on the First Day of School<\/a><\/p>\n

Beached, Brokendown, and Blessed in New Smyrna<\/a><\/p>\n

Spoons, Nudes, and Tuna Casserole<\/a><\/p>\n

Too Much and Not Enough Testosterone for the Christmas Parade<\/a><\/p>\n

\u00a0A Couple of Kids Cobble Together Christmas<\/a><\/p>\n

Dodging the Day After Christmas Blues<\/a><\/p>\n

Swimming Into Forever<\/a><\/p>\n

Song For an Innocent Time<\/a><\/p>\n

Hippie In the Headlights<\/a><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/em><\/strong><\/p>\n

\n

Check out my New Smyrna Beach novels by clicking on the covers.<\/p>\n

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 <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

I pedaled after Dad, each downward push of my legs drawing me closer to meeting his wacko friends. Overhead a storm brewed. With my luck, I\u2019d be soaked before I ever hit their house, much less swim practice later. Mom said Dad wanted to show me off to his friends. That was about as ridiculous […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":2816,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_et_pb_use_builder":"","_et_pb_old_content":"","_et_gb_content_width":"","_exactmetrics_skip_tracking":false,"_exactmetrics_sitenote_active":false,"_exactmetrics_sitenote_note":"","_exactmetrics_sitenote_category":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paid_content":false,"footnotes":"","jetpack_publicize_message":"","jetpack_publicize_feature_enabled":true,"jetpack_social_post_already_shared":true,"jetpack_social_options":{"image_generator_settings":{"template":"highway","enabled":false}}},"categories":[2,66],"tags":[216,104,63,217],"jetpack_publicize_connections":[],"yoast_head":"\nCar Crash and Other Wrecks - Ann Lee Miller<\/title>\n<meta name=\"robots\" content=\"index, follow, max-snippet:-1, max-image-preview:large, max-video-preview:-1\" \/>\n<link rel=\"canonical\" href=\"https:\/\/annleemiller.com\/2015\/01\/car-crash-wrecks\/\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:locale\" content=\"en_US\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:type\" content=\"article\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:title\" content=\"Car Crash and Other Wrecks - Ann Lee Miller\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:description\" content=\"I pedaled after Dad, each downward push of my legs drawing me closer to meeting his wacko friends. 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