Deadly Distractions

 

It’s not unusual, not at all, but it happened again, some idiot crossing the double yellow stripe, heading straight at me. I’m sick of it.

Between the humble abode and downtown Sand Springs lies a section of narrow two lane highway with a couple of 40 mph curves. Of course no one actually slows to 40 mph, that’s understandable; this is after all, Oklahoma. But it’s not the speed that scares the crap out of me, it’s the fact that so many drivers cannot seem to master the simple skills of staying in their own lane as they negotiate a curve. There is no escape route. It’s either the ditch and the telephone poles, or a head-on collision. Not a great choice.

Of course, we know the real reason for this, don’t we? It’s not a lack of skills. Even a reasonably sober person could accomplish the maneuver with ease. Nope. It’s cell phones. If you watch closely as the other driver zooms past, and I always do, he or she will be talking on their cell, driving with one hand, a glazed look in their eyes, totally unaware of the highway menace that they are.

Don’t believe it’s dangerous? Check out the daily paper where they list the traffic deaths. There’s a pattern here .

·         Failed to stop at intersection.

·         Crossed the center line.

·         Went off the side of the road and overcorrected.

Folks, you don’t make those kinds of mistakes, we’re talking fatal mistakes now, if your eyes and attention are focused on the road ahead.

Don’t even talk to me about texting while driving. Dumb. Dumb. Dumb.

And now, as if we didn’t have enough distractions, nearly all the new model cars are coming out with a center dash GPS and entertainment center. Go ahead, reach over there and scroll down through the songs you want to hear. Type in that address. Dial up the weather satellite. Hell, Tweet somebody. You’re only going 65-70 mph, a hundred feet a second, inside a two ton missile. What could possibly go wrong?

I’m going to tell you a story about the time I almost killed two little boys. I tell it to everyone that will sit still for a minute. I tell it often because I think it illustrates a point.  If you’ve heard it before, you can stop here. So long, nice talking to you.

The City of Sand Springs has something in common with San Francisco; they are both quite hilly. The similarity ends there. It was a sunny weekday afternoon. I was in my old pickup, going down a steadily declining grade leading into the heart of downtown.  I was in no hurry, holding at or around the speed limit, when I came upon yet another cross street. Red octagonal stop signs were in place to halt oncoming traffic from both right and left. The street to my right was not only steep toward my direction of travel, but mostly hidden from view by a good sized hill where an old house sat.

As I approached the intersection, my peripheral vision picked up movement on my right. In one split second, there were two young boys directly in front of me, riding double on a bicycle. The look on their faces is a snapshot forever imprinted in my brain. Mouths open, eyes wide in total terror, they went with their natural instinct to survive, to get as far away as possible from the monster machine flying toward them, and tried to jump from the bike. At one moment in time, I had two scared boys directly in front of me, and the next instant, frantically slamming the brakes, they were gone, disappeared, out of sight. Where were they? Under the truck? Dead? Dying? Was there a thump? I didn’t think so but…

I jumped from the truck and ran to the front, my heart about to jump out of my chest. The boys were getting to their feet, brushing themselves off.

“Did you get hit? Are you hurt?”

“No, we’re fine.”

“Are you sure? If the truck touched you, I’m calling the police and an ambulance.”

“No, we weren’t hit.” They seemed adamant about it.

“You know you blew through that stop sign don’t you.”

“Yeah,” they admitted.

And with that, they hopped back on the bike and peddled off.

An old man sitting on his front porch had seen the whole thing and approached.  “I see those two boys do that, run that stop sign, almost every day after school. I figured, one of these days…”

So here’s the thing, the moral of the story. If my reaction time had been one fraction of second slower, if I had been dialing a number on my cell phone, if had reached for a CD , or if I had had so much as a couple of beers, those boys would be dead or seriously injured today. From a legal stand point, I would have probably been found not guilty, circumstances like they were. But the faces of those boys would haunt me at night for the rest of my life.

Sure, I’ve been distracted with the very things I’m ranting about.  Drink and drive? Oh Lord, many times. But not in a long, long while. I’ve been lucky.

Luck doesn’t last forever.

IT.

 

 

 

 

 

Oysters? Oh yeah.

I like to read and do so most every evening, usually at bedtime, in bed. Time was when I could read two maybe three hours before calling it a day. Nowadays, I’m lucky if I get twenty minutes in before the Sandman comes around and drops the book on my chest.

At the present time, I’m nearly though a mystery/thriller novel titled Tin Roof Blowdown by James Lee Burke. The protagonist, a fella by the name of  Dave Robicheaux, works for the New Iberia, Louisiana  Sheriff’s department and along with his sidekick, Clete Purcell , are quite the entertaining characters. How people like James Lee Burke spin such fascinating yarns both inspires and depresses a wannbe writer such as myself. But that’s not my point today.

In last night’s chapter, Dave and his wife go fishing for crappie out of a flat bottom boat in the bayou.  Seems that his wife has packed them a few snacks for their time on the water, among which are fried oyster sandwiches. Now, I’ve never tasted a fried oyster sandwich, but it sounded interesting. The last time I’d slurped a few of the slime balls was in an open air bar on South Padre Island, Texas. You bought ‘em on the half shell, a dozen at a time. Or a half dozen if you wanted to be wimpy about it. The weather was perfect with a slight breeze coming in off the Gulf carrying all those smells that you get around the coastal water, completely foreign to an Okie. The waitress was a cute little thing, having just arrived from Baton Rouge, and with an accent so heavy you could weigh it on the scales. Now eatin’ oysters off the half shell is not for the faint of heart and in no way should be attempted without fortification from a few spookers. Let’s just say that on this occasion, I was well prepared.

But a fried oyster sandwich? I had to try it. I suppose that somewhere in Tulsa, one can buy oysters on the half shell, but for this experiment, and knowing full well it wouldn’t be the same as fresh oysters, I opted for a can of ‘em from the shelf of the local Wal-Mart. Dave’s wife didn’t reveal her recipe in the book, but I was confident the Internet would share the secret. Sho nuff. All you had to do was drain ‘em, soak ‘em in a couple beaten eggs, roll ‘em in bread crumbs, add salt and pepper, and drop ‘em in the skillet. Did I mention that I’m quite talented at cracking eggs? Learned the skill in the good ‘ol U.S. N., the United States Navy. I could grab two eggs with both hands, crack all four of them, and drop ‘em on a sizzling  grill before you could scratch an itch on your behind.  But I digress.

To be honest, my concoction didn’t look all that appetizing. A spooker was in order, maybe a couple. But once those little jewels hit the hot oil, Oh Mama! My delight with my culinary excellence caught the attention of the Missus who was watching yet another Spencer Tracy movie in the bedroom.  

“What’s that smell?”

“Oysters. Want some?”

“Yech. Shut the door.”

Expecting the response, I giggled. All for me. I tossed those babies down like hot buttered popcorn, savoring the moment.

There was no Gulf breeze, nor any waitresses in tight fitting jeans, and yes, the oysters did come from a can, but for Oklahoma in December, it wasn’t all that bad, Baby. Go ahead. Try it. I double dog dare ya.

 

 

 

 

 

Whitlock and Guns

By now most of you have heard or read about the Kansas City Chiefs football player that murdered the mother of his child and then took his own life in the parking lot of Arrowhead Stadium. Sportscaster Bob Costas spoke of the incident on Sunday Night Football and referenced the well known columnist Jason Whitlock, a frequent contributor to the Kansas City Star.

Whitlock wrote, “What I believe is, if he didn’t possess/own a gun, he and Kasandra Perkins would both be alive today.”

Uh, oh. Gun control nut! The web site where Whitlock’s column appeared was flooded with comments by everyone who had ever pulled a trigger. When I last checked, there were over 1500 and were coming in so fast you couldn’t read them before the page refreshed. Most were along these lines: When things get ugly, you’ll be the kind of people that will be hiding behind people like us. And that was a nice one.

But I think the point Whitlock was trying to make is that if guns were not so readily available, killings from impulse, hot tempers, and street gangs may not be as prevalent as they are today. Every red-blooded gun-toting American out there jumped on Whitlock with the logic that the football player could have committed his murders with a knife or a club or even a rock. True, but then how many drive-by stoning incidents do you read about? Truth is, guns are just so damn handy and easy to use. The best part is that you don’t even have to be close to your victim to do him in. Put a scope on a rifle and you can take him out without him knowing you were even in the neighborhood. I think we can agree that pulling a trigger takes a lot less energy and is much quicker than say… a baseball bat, a tire iron, or a chainsaw.

Problem is, it’s a hypothetical. Guns, like drugs, are out there and always will be. The government is not going to take away our guns any more than they can win the war on drugs. That fear generated and encouraged by the weapons manufacturers, the NRA, and the dealers is purely profit driven. Just look at the sales stats after the winner of the recent election was known.

Think about it. Do you honestly believe any elected politician would so much as hint of confiscating the millions of weapons out there today? The key word here is elected, not like the dictatorship of Hitler and Nazi Germany. And no, despite the rants of some, Obama is not a dictator.

Don’t get me wrong, I firmly believe that owning a gun and having the means to defend one’s self is one of our country’s most precious rights. Any logical thinking citizen understands that the responsibility of protecting yourself and your family falls directly on you and not some local police force that may or may not show up and far too late if they do. The old adage that says if you take away the guns, only criminals will have guns, is absolutely true.

And yet, wouldn’t it be nice if the United States wasn’t in the top ten countries with the most firearms-related death rates? Places like Columbia, El Salvador, and our next door neighbor, Mexico where they regularly find bodies piled up in ditches. Doesn’t exactly give you a warm fuzzy does it?

Nice idea Mr. Whitlock, just ain’t gonna happen.

http://msn.foxsports.com/nfl/story/jovan-belcher-kansas-city-chiefs-murder-suicide-tragedy-girlfriend-self-leave-orphan-daughter-why-still-playing-sunday-120112