Snow

Today I celebrated my 45^th birthday. If I live 45 more years and never know another life-changing event that will be fine; I’ve had mine and now I’m dedicated to understanding and using the knowledge that comes from that experience.

Today there was a “surprise party” at the office for me and later a few of my close friends took me to dinner at my favorite Chinese restaurant. Now it’s 11 pm and I’m home alone, without TV, without music, with only a few candles and downtown Birmingham shimmering like luminescent jewels scattered on black velvet stretching from the glass front of my townhouse to the dark ridgeline twenty miles north of the city. The lights of the University of Alabama - Birmingham Medical Center, in the center of the vista, are the first attention grabbers. My infrequent visitors seldom get beyond the magic of that aspect of the vista but for me the center of the view and of my world is in the northeastern corner of my “front yard” – it is the Birmingham Airport – which has been my foundation, my heart, for almost a quarter of a century. From my home the airport is only a flashing beacon and the first few hundred feet of lights on the approach to the main runway. Sometimes I stare at those lights for hours until they disappear in the blizzard in my mind; the blizzard that never ends.

It was mid March, 1985, I was 21 years old, and just past my internship at Channel 6, the NBC affiliate in Birmingham. Though I’d only done a few short, taped, human interest stories on my own, I was sure that my big break was just around the corner. I woke early, stumbled to the window, rubbing sleep out of my eyes with one hand as I opened the living room curtain with the other. A gray overcast sky greeted me, a total contradiction to what I had expected after almost two weeks of perfect spring weather.

I slid the patio door of my low-rent apartment open a couple of inches and quickly closed it when a cold blast of air swept through. I couldn’t believe it. When I’d gone to bed, just before midnight, it had been warm, probably 65, maybe even 70, now it felt like January had slipped back into town for a return engagement.

Just then the phone rang. I found it, picked up the receiver and said, “Hello, this is…”

“Jesus Bobby, I know who it is. Have you looked outside yet?”

“Yep, I just did,” then added, to impress Clinton, my boss and the News Director, “What is this, a bad trick or something?”

“It’s a trick alright. The weather bureau has just issued a winter storm warning for the entire southeast.” He paused. I waited. “Bobby, that means snow, a lot of snow.”

I interrupted without intending to, “Snow in March!”

“That’s right, snow in March. That’s a story Bobby, a damn big story. Now hustle yourself in here as quick as you can.” There was a click and Clinton was gone.

I looked at my watch and discovered that it was 6:30, an hour and a half before I was normally expected at the station. Fifteen minutes later I arrived, still chewing a stale piece of toast with crunchy peanut butter spread on it. I looked around the lobby and thought Clinton had called everyone and they had all arrived there before me. The whole building was full of people and all of them seemed to know what they were doing, all except me.

Sue Pendergrass, the station’s long-time receptionist saw me and shouted above the din, “Bobby, come here.”

Pleased to have something to do I made my way to her desk.

“Clinton wants to talk to you now.”

Before I could turn toward his office, she thrust the phone toward me and shouted, “Bobby, he’s on the phone.”

Before I could get the phone to my ear I heard Clinton speaking, “Bobby, find Frank and you two head to the airport, set up in the main lobby and begin interviewing passengers, employees, policemen, cab drivers, and anyone else who will talk to you.”

Not close to being up to speed I managed to say, “Clinton, what am I going to interview them about?”

“Bobby, I told you when we talked before; the airport is going to be closed because of the blizzard.”

“Clinton, this is March, this is Birmingham, this is spring.”

“Bobby, just do it,” there was a click, something I was beginning to get used to, and he was gone.

I found Frank, a veteran cameraman, or in truth, Frank found me, “Come on Kid, I have a van checked out and ready to go. The latest weather forecast says that the snow will hit us in less than thirty minutes.” Two minutes later Frank was piloting the oldest van in the station’s fleet through the streets of Birmingham as I imagined he had driven a jeep through the streets of Saigon fifteen years earlier.

We turned off the interstate onto the street that led to the airport, on cue the snowstorm arrived. I couldn’t believe it, large flakes, drifting almost straight down through the rapidly chilling air. After two dry weeks there was no question of sticking and immediately the ground was covered with a layer of white. The snowfall quickly intensified, forcing Frank to slow the van. Five minutes later he parked in a no parking zone 100’ from the main entrance of the Airport. We grabbed our gear and hustled inside.

The confusion at the station had been nothing compared to the scene we found ourselves part of as soon as we entered the airport. There were long lines of irate customers at every counter. Later we found that five flights had landed in the past twenty minutes and most of the arriving passengers had connecting flights, flights that had just been canceled due to snow.

Frank set up the camera while I surveyed the scene, beyond the obvious confusion, bordering on chaos, I noted that we were the only TV Reporters on the scene and I figured that wouldn’t change anytime soon. That meant an exclusive and for someone who just finished his internship that was important even if was just a routine snow story.

As Frank taped, I interviewed a few people and got the typical responses that stranded passengers always give, and then I called Clinton from a phone in the bank of pay phones on the lobby wall. Before I could give him a full report he interrupted, “Listen Bobby, this is important. I just talked to the airport manager’s secretary, an old friend of mine, and she said something big is happening, something bigger than delays and canceled flights but she didn’t have the details. Her name is Faye. Find her, get the story and give me a call,” click, and he was gone again.

I sprinted back to Frank, who was doing something mechanical with the camera. I told him what Clinton had said and he pointed to the stairs, “Stan Croft is the Airport Manager, his office is at the top of the stairs.”

Thirty seconds later I was introducing myself to Faye, “…and Clinton asked me to find you and ask what was going on.” Before Faye could say a word the door behind her opened and a short, balding man, with a pot belly, intense blue eyes, and an unlit cigar that he used like a pointer clutched in his right hand, charged into the room, “Faye, who are you talking to? We don’t have time for that. Come in my office right now!” Then his eyes caught Frank and his whole demeanor changed, he slowed down, his voice moved to lower level and emerged so transformed at first I thought someone else was speaking, “Frank, Frank, damn it’s good to see you.” In four steps he closed the gap between himself and my cameraman. They embraced while Faye and I stared.

Stan turned Frank loose and held him at arms length. I couldn’t be sure but I thought I saw a tear slide down his face and then he said, “Damn Frank, it has been too long, Buddy.” He pointed at me and said, “Who is your friend.”

“Bobby is a new reporter. Clinton asked us to come out here and interview passengers and anyone else who would talk to us.”

Stan digested Frank’s words for a moment and made up his mind, “Come on in my office, you too Faye,” as an afterthought he said, “and you too, Bobby.”

Frank’s office had a panoramic view of the airport, and what I suspected was the main runway, suspected because I couldn’t see more than a few feet beyond the window sill, thanks to the snow. “Drag up chairs and I’ll tell you what’s going on, as much as I know anyway.”

It was only later, much later; that I realized that at that moment I shifted from reporting a story to playing a part in a story. Stan said, “This storm has closed every major airport in the southeast. It was totally unexpected and even if we had expected it none of us are equipped to deal with a storm of this magnitude. There is nothing we can do except what we have already done; shut down.”

He paused, looked toward the window and finally said, in the softest voice I’d heard him use yet, “However, there are two small planes out there right now, and they’re headed for that runway that we can’t even see from here. They are carrying two children, brothers, one five the other six, one on each plane. A little over an hour ago they were involved in an auto accident near Fort Payne. The local hospital stabilized them, called UAB and made arrangements for ambulances to meet them here, put them on the planes, and sent them on their way. No one in Fort Payne or at UAB knew about the storm. When they get here they won’t be able to land and all of the airports within their fuel range will be closed.”

He paused again and there wasn’t a sound in the room. Finally he said, “One plane is being flown by a retired Army pilot who owns a flying service in Fort Payne, the other is being flown by one of his students, a Vietnam Vet with less than 500 hours flying time. Frank, I owe you a lot, more than I will ever be able to repay, but one thing I can give you is this story… and hope it has a happy ending.”

Stan set us up in a private VIP waiting room with a view of the runway, at least we would have had a view of the runway if we could have seen through the wall of snow that had captured the airport.

The room had a cable connection that allowed us direct hook-up with the studio and three telephones. Before he left us Stan said, “I’ll put the Tower on the intercom speakers in the room so you can hear the communication between the planes and the airport.” He turned to leave, stopped, and added, “If you’re into prayer, this would be a good time for it.”

As soon as he was gone I turned to Frank, “What was that all about, Frank? The connection between you and Stan.”

Frank’s eyes drifted back to a time I knew I couldn’t understand and hoped I’d never experience and he said, “A long time ago Stan was a reporter for the Stars and Stripes assigned to cover Vietnam. That’s where we met. I was his cameraman. He thinks I saved his life, a few times, actually, and no matter what I say I can’t convince him otherwise.”

Before he could say anything else we heard the lead pilot’s first radio transmission to the tower, “Birmingham Control, this is Cessna 423 Sierra and Cessna 561 Whiskey, we are twenty miles east for landing.” I thought the voice belonged to the retired Army pilot who owned the Fort Payne flying service though I had no way to confirm it.

“Cessna 423 Sierra, Birmingham Control, we are closed to all traffic due to weather, I repeat, we are closed to all traffic.”

The pilot’s voice took on a different quality than I’d heard in his previous transmission, it became a ‘no nonsense, matter-of-fact, this-is-how-it-is-going-to-be, voice of authority, “Birmingham, we understand your situation, and we are going to land. We don’t have another option… our passengers don’t have another option.”

There was a long pause before the controller responded, “Captain, continue on your present course and heading, begin descending to 2,000’… and Captain, we will do the very best we can for you but unless there is a break in this you don’t have a chance of landing at Birmingham today.”

I grabbed a phone. In minutes I had Clinton on the line. I briefed him and waited for instructions. I could almost hear him thinking, “You say that you can get a live hook-up to the studio.”

“Yes.”

“OK, tell Frank to hook you up….” He paused, then said, “Bobby, I’m going to put you on the air, live.”

It was a second or two before I could talk, “Clinton, are you sure?” I finally managed to say.

He laughed, “Bobby, it is one of the few things that I am sure of today.”

Suspecting what Clinton was saying, Frank had already starting making the connection. He had us wired into the studio in record time. When the next radio call came from the lead plane the News Anchor had already introduced me to the TV audience and I was standing in front of the window with Frank filming me and the snow as I talked, live, on the air for the first time.”

When I heard the pilot’s voice I said, “Ladies and Gentlemen, the pilot of the lead plane has just contacted the tower. Listen…”

“Birmingham Control, 423 Sierra, 8 miles from touch down holding at 2,000’.”

“423 Sierra, visibility is still zero, repeat, zero visibility… Captain, we can’t see the runway from the tower, we can get you close but close isn’t going to be good enough today.”

“Control, we understand, but we have to keep coming.”

“423 Sierra, maintain your present heading and descend to 1,000’ …. And Captain, be careful.”

The pilot acknowledged the last remark with a click of his mike key.

I went back to recapping the situation for the TV audience unaware that Clinton had advised New York of the local situation and the National News Director had patched me into the entire network. I thought I was speaking to a Birmingham audience but in fact I was speaking to the world, as CNN had picked up the feed from NBC.

Birmingham Control talked the two pilots down to 500’ and got them within a half mile of the airport before the landing attempt was aborted. As the planes climbed and began to circle for another approach could be set up, the controller took another shot at talking them out of landing at Birmingham, “Gentlemen, I understand the nature of your mission but I’ve got to tell you, the weather bureau reports that the chance of a break in visibility is zero. Now, we can do this as long as you can but the longer you circle the airport the more you are reducing your chances of being able to land anywhere.”

The only sound in the room was a faint hiss from the speakers for what seemed to be minutes and was, in fact, probably thirty seconds, and then a new voice filled the room, a softer, more confident voice, a voice that sounded as though it knew something, a secret that no one else knew and somehow I knew it was the Vietnam Vet who was flying the second plane. “Birmingham Control, this is Cessna 561, we are going to land because there will be a break in the snow, I know there will be one. We appreciate your patience with us and I guarantee you, this time we will get a break in the storm and we will land.”

I knew what the Controller was feeling because I felt it too. How could anyone know there would be a break in this storm, in this solid layer of white that seem to go up and out forever. Finally the Controller said, “Captain, we’re going to bring you around again,” he paused then added, “What else can we do for you, Sir.”

Without hesitation the second pilot said, “Birmingham Control, you, and everyone in the tower can know with us that when we turn final this time the snow will stop falling and we’ll be able to land. If all of you know that and we know it, well that’s just the way it will be.”

The familiar hiss filled the room and then I heard a different voice from the tower say, “We will do that Captain, we will do that, I guarantee it.”

Somehow I found words to describe for the TV audience what was happening, what I was experiencing, and what I felt that the controllers in the tower and the two pilots were experiencing. Five minutes later, the planes were five miles out, lined up for a landing and descending though zero visibility at 800’ when I heard myself say, “Folks, I’m going to stop talking now so you can hear the conversation between the tower and the pilots. I think it would be a good idea if we all knew, along with the pilots and the controllers, that the snow is going to stop falling until the planes have landed.”

I shut up and immediately heard, “Birmingham, Cessna 561, we’re a mile out, descending through 400’,” there was a long pause and then I heard the pilot say, “Birmingham, we have the runway in sight.”

I spun around and looked out the window as two small planes flew out of a solid bank of snow. That’s right; the snow had stopped at the airport and the runway, under a clear blue sky was bathed in sunlight, but just beyond the outer marker a wall of white encircled the entire facility.

The lead Controller recovered quickly and spoke as though what was happening was a routine occurrence, “Cessna’s 423 and 561 you are cleared to land on runway 91West.”

Moments later the two planes touched down, turned off the main runway at the first taxiway, where they were met by a ground control truck which led them to the private plane terminal and two waiting ambulances. I turned back to the camera and began wrapping up the story, then I noticed Frank, camera aimed toward me and frantically pointing toward the window at my back. Still talking, I turned my back to the camera, and saw that the snow was falling as though it had never stopped. I stuttered a bit then managed to finish my report; “And once again, it is snowing at the Birmingham Airport, just as it has been all day, except for the past two minutes. This is Bobby Edwards reporting live for Channel 6.”

Over the next two weeks I received, by actual count, over ten thousand letters from people who had watched the broadcast. Probably half of them said almost the same thing; it went like this, “I was watching your telecast from the Birmingham Airport with my son or my daughter and at the moment that the pilot said, ‘Birmingham Control, we have the runway in sight,’ he or she turned to me and said, “I knew the snow would stop, I knew it.”

I’m a quick study. I do not need or desire another experience to show me how things work – I got it that night, 24 years ago.

Bobby Edwards, Channel 6 News Director, Birmingham, Alabama

The Dog

“… very often we don’t know how to explain what we know. We tend to think from the inside out. We tend to feel our way along. And because of the way we live it is more important usually to know what to do than know how we know it.”

Spenser from Double Deuce by Robert B. Parker

The most direct route from Huntsville, Alabama to Scottsville, Kentucky, is Highway 231, 149 miles of overused, mostly two lane federal highway, that once carried a good portion of the north south traffic in a two state wide column that extends from Key West, Florida to the Canada/U.S. border.

I was north of Lebanon, Tennessee, still fifty miles south of Scottsville, where I had two days of work, the first one with my wife, the second, a wrap up day, I planned to work alone.

When we drove through Fayetteville, Tennessee we talked about the winding roadway north of the city. In Shelbyville, we talked about the Tennessee Walking Horses the town is famous for, and in Lebanon, the birthplace of our friend, George Jackson, we talked about him as though he were at our house, dog sitting Tigger, though they have both been gone many years.

We enjoy talking to each other; and we enjoy not talking to each other; mostly we just enjoy being with each other, no matter what we are doing.

A dozen or so miles north of Lebanon Highway 231 joins Highway 31E and they travel north together for some seventy miles, until 31E heads off in more easterly direction. I pulled up to the stop sign and looked right; the road was empty. I looked left and saw a tractor trailer heading in our direction. It was at least a half mile away and I estimated that I’d be up to speed long before I was a hindrance to it. The road was four lanes at that point so I pulled into the outside lane and began accelerating all the time watching the truck in the rearview mirror.

At 50 mph it was no longer gaining and at 55 it was dropping back some. At that point the two outside lanes disappeared and we were back on the two lanes we’d been on most of the trip. The road began to climb through heavy forest with few side roads, driveways, or houses; at the same time it began to gently climb and curve, first left them right, reducing the distance I could see behind us to a quarter mile or less. Though I knew the truck was still behind us and gaining, I couldn’t confirm it.

A few miles further along, the climb got steeper and a truck lane magical appeared. I held to the inside lane since there was still no traffic behind us. We came around a sweeping curve that opened onto a long straight stretch, at least a mile long I guessed. Ahead I could see four cars, in single file, since only the northbound side had a passing lane, coming toward us. Then I saw something standing in the northbound inside lane, my lane. It was too far away for me to tell for sure but something told me that it was a dog.

I slowed, moved into the outside, looked closer, shook the notion that it couldn’t be a dog out of my head and saw that it was in fact a dog; a big brown dog, stopped in his tracks, staring at the oncoming cars that were going to keep him from completing his crossing to the gravel drive that ran at right angles from the roadway.

As I continued to slow the dog looked at our car, then us, and turned slowly back in the direction of the woods to our right, the place I figured he had come from.

I didn’t have to look in the rearview mirror, I could feel the tractor trailer coming behind us and I knew it was coming fast. I knew it would be a close call for the dog and it crossed my mind that we might get blasted into eternity while trying to give him a chance to make it to safety.

Christina, louder than she usually speaks but to her credit, calmly said, “The truck…” I didn’t reply because there was nothing to say, in fact, because I’d made a commitment not to hit the dog there wasn’t anything I could do to change what was about to happen.

We were moving less than 10 mph when I pulled as far off the road as I could so as not the scare the dog and make him stop. We passed him and I heard air brakes lock and felt 75,000 pounds of truck and cargo bearing down on us. I looked in the mirror and saw that the dog had kept moving toward safety but in spite of my willing him to move faster he didn’t and I knew in my gut he wasn’t going to make it. The tractor trailer, smoke pouring off every tire was bearing down on him like a demon that would not or could not be stopped.

The bumper of the truck caught the dog’s hindquarters. The sound was sickening. The dog, who hadn’t seen the truck, screamed like a child. Somehow he managed to move off the roadway, still screaming. I heard him tumbling down the wooded slope, thought about going after him, and knew that even if I found him there would be nothing I could do.

I looked ahead. The truck driver was fighting for control of the rig and the jury was still out on who would win. Then, brakes released, the rig moved back into the right lane. I caught a glimpse of drivers and passengers in the southbound cars – pale faces, big eyes, relief that they had been spared, and they were past. I knew the truck driver would be looking back, or at least I hoped he would be; I made an emphatic obscene gesture out my window as the screams of the dog continued to echo in my head.

I spent a lot of years in trucking and I knew exactly what had just happened. A driver, going too fast, and not paying attention, had just killed a dog and barely missed killing God only knew how many others. I came back up to speed and held a position about a half mile behind the truck. I knew what the driver had done wrong but I was also convinced that I had done something wrong. I knew there had been something I could have done to have saved the dog but whatever it was, it wouldn’t come to me, not then.

Three miles further along the truck began slowing for a four way stop, stopped, then turned right into the parking lot of a truck stop. I followed. I had it in my mind that I would have a face-to-face confront with the driver, knowing when I was done he would know he had met the Safety Manager from hell and more importantly he would know what to do the next time he faced a similar situation.

He turned in wide circle and found a parking space facing south, the direction we’d just come from. I pulled up beside his door and waited. He opened it and I found myself at a loss for words, at least the words that I thought I would say. He was a she; early forties, plump, wearing jeans and a short sleeved uniform shirt. She reminded me of Claudia Moody. The first woman driver I road tested and one the best I’ve ever ridden with. My plans to get out of the car went out the window.

Her truck was still running and the diesel made conversation difficult. I shouted, one of the dumber things one human could possibly ask another, “What in the hell were you thinking about?”

She looked at me like she didn’t have a clue what I was talking about. I shouted, “You stupid, Bitch!”

She replied with an equally poorly thought out remark, “You can’t talk to me like that.”

She was right and I knew it. I shook my head, rolled up my window, and drove slowly away.

*****************

That wasn’t the end of it, not by a long shot. In fact, as it turned out, that was only the beginning. Christina and I talked about what had happened. I tried to explain why the event had affected me the way it had, knowing as I talked that I didn’t have the words for it. Christina told me what had come up for her and she did it far more eloquently than me. We talked about her issues and she found peace around what had happened while I continued to search for mine.

We didn’t talk about the incident again but I didn’t stop thinking about it, I couldn’t. I wasn’t upset with the driver, though I knew every mistake she had made. I knew I could have done something different and I couldn’t figure out what it was. I kept searching, recalling, reliving, and looking.

The next day I pulled up to the stop sign at 31E, looked at the dashboard clock. It was 12:45, fifteen minutes later than I’d sat at the same place yesterday. I looked right, and the road was empty, just as it had been the day before. I looked left, I wouldn’t have been surprised to see the tractor trailer but the road in that direction was empty also. A little disappointed, I turned north. When I saw the gravel road coming up on the left I slowed. There was still no traffic in either direction. I was barely moving when I passed the drive. In my head I heard the dog screaming, the tires sliding, and once again I smelled the acrid scent of burning rubber. I saw the beginning of the skid marks and realized how close the truck was to us before the driver realized what was going on. The path of the truck was marked with rubber so thick and so far I knew that the tandem wheels on the back of both the tractor and the trailer had been flat spotted.

At forty miles an hour I drove on to the four-way stop, turned right into the truck stop parking lot, then headed back south. I didn’t have a plan, I just knew I had to do it and I didn’t have a clue why. At the junction of 231 and 31E I turned back toward Lebanon, drove about a mile and turned around again. At the junction of 231 and 31E I glanced at the dashboard clock and saw that it was 12:30 – the exact time it had been when I looked at it at that same spot yesterday, only today when I’d pulled up to the sign it had been 12:45. I knew what was going to happen next.

I looked to the right. There was no traffic in sight. I looked left and saw the tractor trailer just like I’d seen it yesterday. I pulled into the right lane, gathered speed, and at 55 mph I looked in the rearview mirror and saw that I was pulling ahead of the truck.

Minutes later I rounded the curve and saw the oncoming cars and the dog standing in the northbound, inside lane, watching them pass. I began slowing, turned on my four way flashers, and moved right. I came to a full stop, looked in my rearview mirror, and saw the tractor trailer slow and move into the outside lane also. The driver, a woman I now felt I knew well, turned on her four way flashers and came to a smooth stop about ten feet behind me.

I leaned out the window, looked at the dog and shouted, “Will you move a little faster?” He wagged his tail as he crossed slowly in front of me and ducked under the guard rail. A moment later I heard him breaking through the underbrush as he moved down the embankment.

I turned into the truck stop parking lot and waited as she swung the rig around and pulled up beside me. With the diesel still running she opened the door, looked down at me, smiled, and shouted, “Thanks for making that happen again.”

I grinned too, then shouted back, “I think it took all three of us – you, me, and the dog, to make it happen again.”

I saw her thinking about that, and then she smiled and gave me a thumbs-up. I drove on to Scottsville. On the way home I slowed at the spot; the skid marks were gone, I wasn’t surprised. As I passed the gravel driveway I thought I saw the dog disappearing over the hilltop. I wasn’t surprised at that either.

Mr. Jones Meet Mr. Parkhouse

For as long as I can remember I’ve heard that just before you die, your whole life flashes before you, like a final review before an exam. When I was a kid that concerned me and then I had an experience that I thought would be my last and my life didn’t flash before me. Since then I’ve had more of those last moment experiences than I can count. Every time the same thing happened and it isn’t the events of my life flashing in front of me.

Actually, two things have happened every time I’ve thought I was about to cash out; the first one, though at first unnerving, is actually rather pleasant; time moves into slow motion. I guess that’s what has gotten me through those moments. When things are moving in slow motion I find that I make no mistakes, I make everything I do count and I do it perfectly.

The other thing that happens in those moments is some long forgotten memory flashes in my mind. It doesn’t take my attention away from what is going on, but it’s there, like a breaking news story on a monitor set into the main screen of a CNN news cast.

That happened last night, which is why I’m in the hospital this morning, but don’t worry, I’m fine and I’ll be checking out in a few minutes, in fact my wife is down at the ER admission office taking care of that right now so I have a few minutes to tell you what happened.

I’m a runner. I have been one for over thirty years now. I run at night, always have, ever since my very first run, July 2, 1979. Last night I was on the downhill side of a six mile run, a little over two miles from home, in the middle of a quiet street that probably hadn’t seen a vehicle in an hour or two.

I had let my mind run ahead on a long leash and I guess I was paying about seventy percent attention when suddenly time shifted into slow motion. When that happens there is a loud, very real, click in my head, and I know that I’m about to move into a time segment that could be my last. It’s not a scary thing. I haven’t been scared since I heard my first 122 mm rocket in Vietnam in 1967. I’ve been startled a few times, but not scared. My Buddy, Howard Dirler, told me that it’s OK to be startled, that can save your life, but scared will kill you more often than not. Howard didn’t say much so when he did talk I listened.

Last night, when things went to slow motion, I called back all of my attention and waited to see what would happen next. If you had been watching when that happened you probably wouldn’t have noticed anything out of the ordinary, just an old, gray haired man jogging down the middle of your street. I didn’t break stride or move out of the street, I just waited to see what had prompted the time shift.

I didn’t have to wait long. About four blocks ahead I saw soft blue lights pulsating off the hedges and trees at an intersection, then the headlights of a car. The car crossed the intersection slowly with a Huntsville police car a few feet behind it. The patrolman wasn’t using his siren and there was no sound of backup approaching so I figured it was just a routine traffic stop.

I wondered why things had gone to slow motion and stayed in that mode when I noticed the “breaking news story screen” open in the corner of my mind and I knew that whatever was going on that might lead to my last moments as a human being were about to unfold. I’m six two, normally I run at a shortened stride, easy pace, around ten minutes per mile. I began to move faster and lengthened my stride. There is something unnatural about being late for your last show and I wasn’t going to let that happen. I knocked out two blocks as fast as I’ve run in the last twenty years. Ahead I heard the sound of a police radio; the sound you hear in the background of every emergency scene on TV, at the movies, and in real life.

I knew as sure as I’ve ever known anything that I was about to part of what ever was going on up ahead. I picked up the pace again and knew that my 66 year old body was going about as fast as it could go on flat ground, and frankly, it was a pretty decent clip. With a block to go I glanced at the breaking news story monitor and saw the front page of the Birmingham News, date September 11^th, 1971; thirty-eight years ago.

The headline, stretching from one side of the paper to the other was simply, “Mr. Jones, meet Mr. Parkhouse.” Below the headline was a picture that was half the width of the headline. Two men and a football were the only three things in the picture; Jimmy Jones, one of the men, the USC quarterback, had been in the act of passing the ball to a wide open receiver in the end zone, about a half second before the picture was snapped. The second man in the picture was Robin Parkhouse, Alabama’s left defensive tackle. Parkhouse had released his man, who was now open in the end zone, to take a chance on sacking Jones before he could get the pass away.

Realizing that he wasn’t going to make it if he didn’t leave his feet, about ten feet away from Jones, who had just stopped and set himself to pass, Parkhouse left his feet and launched himself. He hit the quarterback in the center of the chest with such force that the sound was picked up by the TV microphones on the sidelines. The ball, also in the picture, was now on the ground, behind Jones, who was still standing straight but with Robin Parkhouse’s shoulder in his chest. The final score, Alabama 17, USC 10, was a direct result of that play and the headline, “Mr. Jones, meet Mr. Parkhouse,” was branded in the minds of every Alabama fan that had seen that classic game.

I wondered why that old memory had moved into my mind as I swung around the corner and saw the police cruiser, a half a block ahead, pulled to the right side of the road behind a seven or eight year old, nondescript, dark sedan. The Patrolman had just walked to the side of the car when there was a shot and a flash of light from inside the car. The patrolman staggered backwards and collapsed in the middle of the road. The door of the sedan opened and the driver, a tall dark shape in the shadows of the quiet residential street, stepped out, large, chrome, automatic, in his right hand. His focus was on the downed officer, who was struggling to get his weapon out of his holster.

I knew what was about to happen as surely as Robin Parkhouse knew that he had a chance to sack Jimmy Jones if he released the man he was supposed to defend. I was ten feet away and closing, still unnoticed by the gunman, when he stopped beside the policeman, laughed, and raised his weapon for the killing shot.

I screamed, “No!” Aimed myself toward his chest, and left my feet. The breaking news monitor flashed and the picture of Jones and Parkhouse disappeared, replaced by a picture of me, sailing through the air, headed toward what I figured would be end of me. I heard another shot, saw the flash, felt something slam into my left arm, and then I crashed into the shooter’s chest.

On the screen I saw the gun flying away and in real time I heard it hit the pavement. My momentum carried both of us back to the sedan where my weight drove him into the still open door. His head snapped back and hit the corner of the door. He was unconscious when he hit the ground, in fact, at that second I thought he might be dead but I didn’t dwell on it.

I scrambled away from him and moved to the side of the officer. He was hit in the right side of the chest, and though not pleasant, I knew from my experience in Vietnam, that it wasn’t a life threatening wound. I pulled my T-shirt off, folded it into a small squared and pressed it over the wound. Time shifted back to normal mode and I heard a siren and then another. The officer opened his eyes and asked the question that wounded men have asked since the beginning of time, “Mister am I going to make it?”

I looked in his eyes, smiled, and said, “No problem, Officer. In a week, you’ll be as good as new, I guarantee it.” He grinned. “Thanks,” he said.

Maybe my life will flash before me when the real last event rolls out but until then I’m good with the breaking news story monitor and “Mr. Jones, meet Mr. Parkhouse.”