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On December 16, my husband, Tom, his mother, and I headed for St. Louis to spend the week-end with the kids and granddaughters three. About 10 miles or so into the trip, Doris, Tom's mom, remembered that she had forgotten to stop her mail. Tom said we could just call the post office on the cell phone, but Doris did not know the number. However, she did know the number of the congregate meal site where she drank coffee every mornng. ate senior lunches, and quilted in the afternoons on Monday and Friday. Tom called the number and Carol, the cook, answered. Carol was one of the 34 graduates in our Scranton High School Class of '63. (that is 1963 not 1863 as some of you might think). So, we knew her well. Tom asked her to look up the number of the post office. She was glad to do it. She also volunteered to do it for us if we wished. No, indeed we could do it. Tom then called the post office. Of course, they were happay to put a hold on Doris' mail, but Friday's mail had already gone out. Tom's reply to the next question was, "If it isn't too much trouble."
The question posed after explaining Friday mail had already been dispatched was, "Would you like us to go pick it up and bring it back?" Aaaah, life in a small town.
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Little did I know what the next Friday would bring. Hence, the inspiration for the second title to this piece.
On Friday, December 23rd, we had the opportunity to the "call any number in Scranton for help phone technique" but for a much different reason. This time we were trying too get in contact with Dad's insurance agent. Tom called the insurance office first but it was closed for Christmas. Then he called the only other number he knew, the bank's. He called the bank number so someone could look up the insurance agent's home number. He was not home, but his wife gave us his cell phone number. Our agent was passing by Glidden ( 9 miles west of Scranton) when Tom reached him. He went straight to his closed office to look up information for us.
This is why we needed the information.
About 25 miles west of the Quad Cities on our way to Springfield on the 23rd, Tom moved into the passing lane to go around a semi. About half-way around, we suddenly couldn't see anything. Tom was doing about 72 miles per hour. Evidently, a wind gush or vaccum pocket caused our van's hood to pop open and smash into the windshield. Now remember we were doing 70+ miles per hour and could not see because the hood was blocking the view. The windshield stayed in place but was shattered. The snow, ice and slush complicated the situation. And we were driving blind next to a semi on our right. Tom managed to slow the van to a speed in which he could pull over to the middle median and get stopped. All, I remind you, without being able to see. We were so lucky on so many counts. The main one is probably that I wasn't driving. I think I would have just closed my eyes and screamed before dying. It still gives me the chills to think about how lucky we were. Meanwhile, our insurance agent spent time on the phone looking for a place where we could help. It was the Friday before Christmas and everything was closing. His was not an easy task. As we slowly continued in the dismal weather almost feeling our way along, our agent found a place in Davenport where we could get the exact windshield and they were ready for us when we arrived. One and one half hours later, we were back on the road to Springfield and the repair shop closed as we drove out of the lot. Just as Dickens ends his Tale with memorable wordage, I will try to do the same with mine.
I will enjoy today. Tomorrow may not come my way.
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