That time I Got Into a Rollover Accident

Your Oma has spent a good portion of her life having me give her (playful) shit over this incident, and I expect her to live long enough for you to rib her for it, also.

One of my earliest memories was of your Oma and I moving to the Tri-Cities. She had recently been accepted to Washington State University (Go Cougs!), and we were headed to Richland so that she could attend classes at the Tri-Cities campus. It was a big move for her — she was leaving the verdant forests of the West Side for the dry, arid desert of the East. She left her family, friends, acquaintances — her entire life (other than myself, of course). She decided to put up with lil’ two-year-old me and haul me along in a carseat in the back of her car, for four hours across the State.

The West Side, where you’re growing up, is a luscious bed of greenery, draped over a mountainous, volcanic fault-line of constantly changing geological features. The East Side is dominated by three things — a rain shadow effect, the rolling hills resulting from the end of the last Ice Age, and a vast nuclear wasteland which covers a good part of the Southeastern part of the State. The trip across is beautiful. When you were the age I was when your Oma and I first trekked across those mountains and over those hills, you marveled at the snow, the trees, the waterfalls, and the cool desert air — something which we never experienced in the humid forests of your home. Your Oma and I experienced much the same.

We were headed East, and as we passed through the dew-soaked forests, over the snowy mountains, and into the vast desert beyond Cle Elum, your Oma gazed at the bald mountains in the distance.

“Look, Michael! Those are bald mountains ahead!”, she exclaimed.

I distinctly recall thinking that she was a mad woman, obsessed with a triviality which (in hindsight) escaped the juvenility of my developing mind. I remember looking at those rolling hills wondering what she was so impressed by. Being two years old, I just wanted to get out of the car to play.

Yet, the hours rolled on, and we approached our destination. Fully embroiled in the heat of the desert air, we drove and drove. Cattle grazed alongside the highway, and sagebrush carpeted the land all the way to the horizon. The occasional tumbleweed would roll across the road and your Oma would flinch in fear that she might hit it. I was, admittedly, quite bored by this point in time, and was fidgeting a great deal. One thing you will learn, should you ever have children of your own, is that they tend towards fidgeting. They squirm and they squiggle and make such a fuss that it’s surprising that adults around them can accomplish anything at all. Your Oma, however, was worried.

Your Oma has always been something of a worrier. She worried over scabs, scrapes, dings, and scratches, always concerned that the worst would happen.

“You’ll get infected!”, she would say.

“So what?”, was my refrain.

And so it went on and on throughout our lives, and I was never able to soothe her. Neither was she ever able to soothe me.

In this instance, she was worried that I may have fidgeted my way out of the child restraint on the car seat on that afternoon in the high desert. She kept looking back — worrying — looking back — worrying. I recall wondering how she could drive until suddenly… CRASH!!!

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We had rolled over several times off the right side of the highway and into a field. There was a house in the distance. I don’t remember the accident. But I do remember being pulled out of the car, carried maybe an eighth of a mile to that house, and I vividly remember what happened next.

An older woman who made excellent orange juice offered her help. Your Oma hoisted me onto the counter in the kitchen, and the old woman gave me a glass of that orange juice. Ohhhh, how sweet and tangy it was! I had never experienced such a delight in my life! The perfect balance of sweetness and sourness, without a hint of bitterness from the rind. It was truly delightful. Then, I heard the spigot of the water behind me as the faucet on the kitchen sink turned on. I had shards of glass all over my small face, sticking out like those tumbleweed thorns which would stick from my feet throughout my childhood.

The old lady began to pull them out, one-by-one, and the blood ran from everywhere. I winced and cried as she washed the bits and chips and sanguine fluid from me… and I continued to sip on that orange juice. It was dreadfully painful, and it wasn’t until many years later when dealing with a bad sunburn that I felt that intensity of pain again in such a long duration. Seconds dragged on into minutes, and minutes into what seemed to my small mind like hours, until my entire existence was consumed by the agony. But there was still that orange juice…

We arrived in the Tri-Cities sometime later, and settled into our new home. We lived in public housing for a few years before Oma met your Papa in the Star Trek club. She held a chickenpox party when the neighbor kid got sick. I was scratching and scraping for a week before I began to feel better. I may or may not survive long enough to worry about shingles. They developed a vaccine a year or two later.