On Christmas Eve, Hubby and I sat in a booth at the Waffle House eating a late supper. Just 28 hours before, Hubby had slammed the van’s brakes hard to avoid smashing a car that had abruptly slowed in front of us on the Interstate in Little Rock. I looked up in time to see that car a moment before three airbags exploded from their hiding places to protect us. Stunned, I stared at the suddenly visible airbags and noticed the residual smoke wafting up from each. I stared at Hubby and the drooping airbag from the steering wheel in front of him and another at his feet.
He said something, but I could not understand; my ears needed to recover from the percussive impact of three airbags’ exploding. “We need to roll down the windows,” I said.
The fresh air helped me focus as did the stranger who stopped to ask, “Are you okay? Have you called 911?” The handsome state policeman in his crisp uniform definitely helped us both focus. We talked, answered questions, filled out forms and watched the officer take pictures of both vehicles before we rode off in the wrecker to meet our daughter at his wrecking yard.
She took us to the car rental at the Little Rock airport. On a busy holiday weekend, her husband had found us one of the two remaining cars available to rent in the city. We paid holiday prices without quibbling.
My daughter listened to the accident story and said, “I am thankful that we are just planning for a rental and not a funeral.”
Because Hubby had left his billfold at home, I had to sign the lease, use my credit card and drive home. I do not usually drive. I prefer to lean back, read, write, sew or sleep while someone else drives.
But on the eve of Christmas Eve I drove the dark, empty highway with my usual driver riding shotgun. We talked. We listened to the radio. We arrived home in plenty of time for him to report the accident to the insurance company and read a friend’s message. She wrote, “I just bought another vehicle so you can borrow my van.”
Perfect! The next day after church we went to her house and came home with a van that looked almost exactly like the one we left at the salvage yard.
With rental fees ticking away at holiday prices, Hubby said, “let’s take the rental back now and save some money.”
On Christmas Eve?
Yes.
Reluctantly, I put aside my plans and again drove through dark woods and quiet towns with empty streets testifying that other folks were gathering for presents and feasts. He drove the borrowed van. I drove the rented sedan. Only a skeleton crew met us at the rental office.
With the paperwork completed, we fastened safety belts in our borrowed van to go home. As we left the airport, hubby, once again in the driver’s seat, turned to me, “Do you want to do anything before we leave Little Rock?”
I looked at him. It was Christmas Eve. Only gas stations and the Waffle House had lights.
“Well, there’s the Waffle House,” I said. Waffles had been calling my name the last few days.
“Yes.” he said eagerly. Obviously that was his wish all along.
In the holiday hushed restaurant, we had our selection of any stool or booth except the two with guests. We ordered an All Star Special to share: a waffle, eggs, sausage, toast and hash browns.
We didn’t need a late supper. It failed every nutritional guideline and broke my intermittent fast. But, we wanted a Christmas Eve feast. So on Dec. 24 we ate at The Waffle House, glad to be injury free and driving a van that could haul everything prepared for our family’s New Year’s gathering.