July 21, 2007
People Die
My father used to get called out to weird scenes at night, sometimes, in his capacity as an attorney. Shootings, knifings, rapings, his talents were in demand.
He once had to attend a car crash at Ebenezer Church, for some reason. Effingham County was dry, so people would run across the county line to Cox's or Pop Edwards's to boost up.
There were these eight black guys who had packed into a car, and bought some liquor across the line. They got hammered, as people will do, and unfortunately ran into the brick pillars of the Ebenezer Church Cemetery. Said pillars having cannonballs atop them. So these cannonballs shot through the windshield, wreaking unimaginable havoc within.
When the Senator showed up he said it was nothing but body parts, and the horrible smell of blood and liquor, mixed together in a revolting cocktail of the senses.
I know this because he was stirring a drink as he told us when he got home. Then, being the Senator, he channeled his inner Erskine Caldwell when we asked what exactly happened.
"A nigger'll die," he said. That was supposed to explain everthing.
And, in a way, it did.
Late night calls weren't unusual at our house either, since dad was a small town physician. Why is it that the weirdest shit happens at o'dark thirty in the morning?
One of the strangest things that happened was in the middle of the day, however, when the sheriff brought in two people who had wandered in out of the wilderness. They had survived a small plane crash a few weeks earlier, and had found their way out of the mountains. With one less passenger and a backpack full of jerky, which was quickly disposed of in a barrel out back of the clinic. I had no idea they kept quicklime on hand for just such an occasion.
You know you've hit weird when your family phone starts ringing off the wall with calls from the Enquirer and the Star. We were all told to shut up and hang up on anyone who called in regard to the incident. No HIPA rules back then, but confidentiality was expected as a hallmark of professionalism. However, soon after, one of the victims wrote a tell-all book, so I guess greed trumps privacy. I'm going to have to see if I can find the book - see if Dad got a mention in it.
Posted by: Peggy U at July 21, 2007 2:57 PMstupid vickers
Posted by: rankin' rob at July 21, 2007 3:27 PMI want to revise that. It was the pilot that didn't come out.
Posted by: Peggy U at July 21, 2007 4:07 PMJust think about 8 folks in a car. Eight non-Mexicans in a car. Damn.
Posted by: Joan of Argghh! at July 21, 2007 4:27 PMA friend of mine from high school, his dad was a Florida Highway Patrolman. Always got called to the most horrific crashes. He would get access to all the photos from the scenes and bring them all home to show his teenage boys. He wanted to hammer home what happens with foolishness and boys and driving. I supposed it worked as they both lived, but it definitely damaged them too. Ick.
Posted by: Bou at July 23, 2007 2:53 PMIn Trooper's room are a set of photos from what we now call the Three Piece Mexican meal. The mix of alcohol, high speed and an SUV = one victim, three pieces.
I ain't lookin - I saw enough of Piece #1.
And just last week? The daredevil motorcyclist f'ing with the semi...let's just say the semi decided not to brake the last time and all that was left was a spine. Seriously.
These sorts of things happen every damned day and each time you have to wonder just how stupid people can be. We'll have to edit that sentiment here, tho..." A Mexican'll die..." I likey.
Posted by: LauraB at July 23, 2007 5:55 PMHeld a motorcycle accident man in my arms till he died waiting for the ERM to get there. Not cool.His whole left side was broken. Had a head injury with his brain exposed.
Still missing something here about the end of your blog.
I got the Erskine Caldwell reference, and it brought my childhood back in one big rush. Now I'm sick.
Posted by: Dan Patterson at July 25, 2007 8:55 PM