Richardson's Corner Road

Darrell Wayne had worked in the lumber mill all his life, following a tradition originally set by his great grandfather. He was a rough and tumble young man, hard drinking, hard living and hard working, fond of course language and high stakes poker games but always cheerful about his lot in life, always the first in line to lend a hand to a friend. The night of the accident he had taken on a extra run with the logging truck when another driver had called in sick. He never gave it a second thought, climbing into the cab and roaring off into the cold night, airhorn blaring and every light on the truck aglow.

The collision with the pickup truck happened on a deserted, back country two lane road an hour or so later. Darrell Wayne had made the turn at Richardson's Corner and was headed downhill when the pickup came into sight, weaving and veering toward him like a drunken sailor. In the split second before impact, both drivers tried to adjust their courses but space and time ran out and they met with such a devastating and shattering force that residents of nearby homes expected to find a crashed aircraft and body parts scattered along the road. Instead, they found survivors - both men crushed, broken and burned, but alive. The woods were alive as well with rapidly spreading fire and in a matter of minutes an entire small town mobilized, pulling the victims away from the wreck, coordinating fire fighting efforts, saving the lives of two strangers as well as what was so precious to them personally.

God must've been watching that boy, Aunt Pearl remarked to the Ladies Quilting Circle when the news reached the island, I expect this will change his life. My grandmother laughed a little harshly, Don't hold your breath, dear, she told Pearl, Darrell Wayne t'ain't likely to find the Lord over this.

After several months in hospital and several more in rehabilitation, Darrell Wayne emerged, intact save for a number of pins holding his broken bones together and a pronounced limp. The pick up driver had lost an arm but was otherwise healthy and the two had, strange as it seemed, forged an enduring friendship and kept in touch for the rest of their lives. Each year on the anniversary of the accident, they traveled to Richardson's Corner Road, offered up a brief prayer and then got what Uncle Shad called "knee walkin' drunk" together. Mighty strange way to say thanks, Shad told my grandmother with a shrug and Nana just laughed. As she had suspected, Darrell Wayne's brush with death didn't change his life or alter his behavior except to make him more determined to live as he pleased and cram as much in as he could. He was just past forty when mortality, disguised as a pretty woman with a jealous boyfriend, intervened in a bar brawl in St. John. The boyfriend took a beating before drawing a knife and Darrell Wayne was, Uncle Shad reported, dead before he hit the floor.

God has his eyes somehere else that night, Aunt Pearl said tearfully and my grandmother had the good grace to keep silent.