Thankful To Be Walking Away

There are some things that are not meant to play out the way we plan them to play out.

Today’s adventure with my friend was all about a historic small town hike.  We were going to go to the old hotel, pick up the recorded history.  Check.  Did that.  Start the recordings and take pictures.  We even created a list of items to take pictures of to have a contest on who took the most creative pictures.  Check.  We both had our cameras at the ready.

We headed out on the self guided, and very cold, walking tour.

We didn’t bother to dawdle at the first building long and once we oriented ourselves to the map we headed quickly to the second destination.   We were walking on the sidewalk.  Me in front.  My friend behind.  We were looking to our left for the numbers on the buildings to find the plaques noting the buildings on the tour.  I stopped and faced the row of buildings, stepping back towards the outside of the sidewalk.  My friend was to my left now.  The row of buildings facing me.   The street at my back.

I did not necessarily become aware of what  happened in the chronological order it happened.  Pieces of what happened came to my consciousness  as my brain could process it in.

I looked down and a flying black object was hitting my left foot.

I looked to my left and there was a black wrought iron trash can next to me, a red Toyota pickup on the other side of it.

I heard my friend yell my name.

I came to the realization that the truck was on the sidewalk heading towards me.  But I don’t remember moving.  I have no idea how it did not plow through and over my friend.  Where was my friend?

I have no idea why I didn’t move.  Or if I didn’t move.  I know I looked-and the truck was coming at me.

And then it was over.

I have no idea how I got behind the scene after it stopped.  And I saw the truck.  My friend was there unscathed.  My foot hurt.  People were approaching.  Cautiously.  No one knew what to do.  The driver still sat in the truck.  A man approached the truck, I saw him speak to the driver.  The windshield was smashed.  The truck was making noise.  It made crunching noises.  It had also plowed through a tall, wrought iron light pole, which turned out to have been part of what hit me.  The top of the light had crashed into the windshield of the truck from what I could tell.  From where I stood.  The truck made more noises.  The truck backed up.  And left.  Cars pulled up.  People were yelling out the license plate number.  People were writing it down.  People were asking my friend and I if we were okay.   Two girls came over and said they had no idea how we did not get run over.  They couldn’t believe we didn’t get hit.  We were right there, where he plowed through with the truck.  The man who went up to the driver, came over with his friend and stayed with us until the police arrived.  He said the man in the truck appeared drunk.  Very drunk.  Or very impaired in some way.   It could have been something medical, but no one knew because he pulled away so quickly.  People had seemed hesitant to approach the driver of the truck, perhaps, because of his demeanor.  I don’t know.   People were helping clear the debris from the street so cars wouldn’t run over it, possibly getting flats.    Another man came over and had us write our names and numbers down after the police didn’t arrive for awhile in case we didn’t want to wait.

I sat down and took my shoe off just to look at my foot.  It wasn’t bleeding so I put my shoe back on.  One woman thought I got hit in the back of the leg because there were marks on the back of my leg.  I told her I didn’t think so.  But who knew.  Maybe I’d have bruises later.

The police arrived.  They had us write statements.  Wanted to know if we needed a hospital.  The officer who talked with us the most was exceptionally friendly and told us he hoped we didn’t feel unfavorably towards their city after hearing our run of luck the first two days we’ve had in his little city.   We assured him that no matter what has happened the people here have been fabulous.  Which has been the saving grace to this trip.

When we looked over the scene I saw what saved me.  The wrought iron light post and wrought iron trash can that were cemented in to the ground are what saved me.  Literally.  Simply.  Truly.  You can see where the trash can was uprooted from it’s spot and moved.  You can see where he sheered off the light post and continued for how many feet before plowing in to the trash can.  My friend on one side of the scenario.  Me on the other side.

I stood there looking at them.  My friend said when it happened she could not see me at all.  She saw the truck, and not me, that’s when she yelled my name.

When I was looking at this I looked at her and asked what was between her and the truck.

She simply said “it had to be my guardian angel”.

We finished with the police.   And walked away.

Technically, that’s all we planned to do this trip, was walk this little city.   And we are walking away.

Glory be.

The truck hit the light post.  Sheering it off and driving over the top of what was left.

The truck hit the light post. Sheering it off and driving over the top of what was left.

From here, to there,  my friend was on this end.  I was on the other side of the trash can when the truck stopped, the bumper in the trash can.  I could have put my hand in the trash can.

From here, to there, my friend was on this end. I was on the other side of the trash can when the truck stopped, the bumper in the trash can. I could have put my hand in the trash can.   The light post and remnants of it lie to the right of the trash can.   The big bulb like end of it is unfortunately positioned under the helpful young woman….

The Scene of Disbelief

 

I don't even know where for sure the sign came from.  I'll have to look at the pictures better.

I don’t even know  for sure where the sign came from. I’ll have to look at the pictures better.

I thanked the police for their city making wrought iron trash cans and cementing them to the sidewalks.

I thanked the police for their city making wrought iron trash cans and cementing them to the sidewalks.

Paying Respect To The Sacrificial Trash Can.

Paying Respect To The Sacrificial Trash Can.

Note:  all pictures were taken by my friend saved by her guardian angel.  I was too busy kissing trash cans.