Freak accident on a stretch of Oklahoma highway. Not many other vehicles involved, but a semi changed lanes, colliding with a sedan, and things got ugly. Big fire, unconscious driver. My mother never hesitated. She disappeared into the blaze and came back, clothes burning, hair on fire. A man draped across her shoulders; hurt, but breathing. My mother, totally unharmed. Sporting a new haircut. She dumped the man, and got back into the station wagon. Gunned the engine and pulled a hard U-turn on the median. Drove us out of there. Never heard a peep on the radio, afterward—not even a segment on the news—though nowadays there would probably be a cell-phone video making our lives hell on You-Tube. Not that it would matter, given the alternative. “Exceptions to the rules,” my mother would say. “There are always exceptions.” Drawing attention for a good cause was one of them. Like fighting demons, even if it was in broad daylight. Lost opportunities, after all, were like wasting air while drowning a mile underwater.
