The First Ladies of Canton (and the kindness of strangers)

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I’ve heard that the journey is more important than the destination. Is that just for life in general, or for trips we take? Maybe both. For my trip, the voyage was much more memorable than the destination. Violence has a way of doing that to you.

And so this entry will be short on touristy stuff, mainly because I didn’t really do that much sightseeing at my destination, or even on the way. So let’s dispense with that first, since most of my anonymous readers probably only clicked on this entry for my experience in Canton, Ohio.

Part 1: Tourism, or Sometimes You Get What You Pay For

I’ve only been to Canton once before, on a larger road trip a few years back. I did the presidential things: the McKinley tomb and house. I had no idea that the First Ladies National Historic Site was literally less than two miles away. And I don’t remember seeing any publicity for it when I visited the McKinley museum. It’s odd, since the Saxton House (owned by the family of William McKinley’s wife) is part of the First Ladies NHS block. And they have a special room at the First Ladies NHS devoted to the courtship and marriage of the McKinleys!

But I digress.

There’s free parking next to the Saxton House, and a short walk away is the First Ladies NHS, housed on two floors of an old bank building. The interior of the building was pretty cool. I liked the wall decoration and the chandeliers, especially in the main hall when you first walk in. The rest of the NHS felt open—those high ceilings really help. Also lots of glass cases featuring miniature dresses, which are re-creations of inaugural gowns of First Ladies past. Seriously, if you’re not interested in looking at lots of miniature re-creations of inaugural gowns, maybe you should skip this museum.

That’s really my biggest takeaway—and gripe—about this site: it left me with a great idea of each lady’s sense of fashion (or lack thereof), but it didn’t have much more substance about their lives and contributions otherwise. You get one large room when you enter, with the park ranger inside a glass booth to let you know this building is free to explore, but the Saxton House tour costs money. A few large glass cases line the walls of this room, stocked with those miniature dresses and a few other inaugural souvenirs, like programs or buttons. I did find some shoes, and of course those of Mamie Eisenhower caught my attention (I do love her shade of pink); but otherwise, I had a difficult time finding much more about the ladies themselves. The McKinley room was the only other room on this main floor, but there were no artifacts, only large cardboard displays printed with photos and narratives about the couple. Downstairs, they had a small exhibit—large glass cases again—detailing the work of the African American woman who designed many of the First Ladies’ dresses in the mid-twentieth century. Then around the corner, they had created a movie theater, but it’s self-service. Go up and hit the “play” button on the DVD player if it hasn’t already started. It’s the Smithsonian Channel’s documentary of the lives of the First Ladies. I watched for about 15 minutes, and it never made it past Jackie Kennedy. I was alone for the first few minutes, but 4 other people came in before I decided to see what I else I could snoop around for.

Turns out, there’s nothing there except some bathrooms. So I trod back upstairs to look back over the glass cases in the main room, in case I missed anything. I hadn’t. So after just under an hour, I headed back to my car and continued along my journey up to Buffalo.

I did manage to sneak in a trip to Dough Co. Doughnuts, a local chain, before I went to the NHS. Such a variety, especially those filled donut sticks. And lots of donuts with peanut butter cream! I only got three in total, since I’m still trying to lose weight. But I’m on vacation, so I indulged. I don’t regret it one bit.

Part 2: The Accident, or More Than What I Paid For

I won’t beat around the bush on this one: I’m pretty fortunate to be alive, and that my car is still working, and that no one else got hurt when I lost control of my car and spun around a few times on the interstate just north of Charleston, West Virginia. It’s one of those instances where, if you don’t believe in a higher power watching out for you, you may just wonder how in the world it happened so smoothly. God, guardian angel, or no, I walked away with no scratches. My car lost only the air-intake component, the chrome Honda logo on the front grill, the plastic wheel wells, and the bolts attaching the front bumper to the metal undercarriage. No other body or engine damage to me or the car. And no one else was involved.

Blame it all on the microburst. I’ve felt and heard a thunderstorm microburst before, but I’ve never driven through one. It was otherworldly to drive around the curve on the road, going about 70 mph, as the bottom suddenly fell out of the sky. No warning at all, and within 2 minutes, the rain had stopped. But during those two minutes, my life flashed before my eyes, my car spun around at least 900 degrees, and my turkey sandwich never moved from its place on the passenger seat.

I have no idea how.

I tapped the brakes as I saw the rain begin, but it did no good. The car started to hydroplane, and I just knew the two cars in the lane next to me were about to get knocked around by the back end of my car. Nope. I suppose their speed kept them moving faster than my hydroplaning. I’ll just assume that my lane had deeper water than theirs; my inner lane did appear to be on the lower side of the road than their outer lane.

As soon as I lost control—in an instant—I knew it was all over: my trip, my car, my life. All I could do was hold the wheel as I just groaned, “No, no, no, no.” Helplessness.

I spun, and then did it again, all the while just waiting to flip over or crash into the guardrail in the median. Or worse, hit another car. And then the car went into the median, where I realized there was no guardrail. It was just wet grass, leading uphill into oncoming traffic. Great. I’m dead.

If gravity and muddy friction hadn’t stopped my ascent up the median, I certainly WOULD have died. Along with my car and with this trip. But fate had other plans. I came to a stop, with about 2-3 feet of the back side of my car poking into the oncoming lane, and with the front end pointed back toward the lane I’d just come from. But no one hit me.

With heart racing, I immediately wondered if I’d even be able to move the car. Or my legs. I undid the seat belt and opened the door. My left leg set foot on the wet ground, so I knew I didn’t have to worry about my legs, as shaky as they were. I turned the car off. Some plastic bits were in the median with me, along with some hellacious skid marks in the mud. I wanted to move my car completely out of the road, but I was unsure: do I try to go back down the median into my original lane? Or do I try to whip it around and go with the upper lanes?

It didn’t even cross my mind at the time, but in retrospect, one thing really bothers me: not one person stopped to help, or even see if I was okay. Not one. They had all seen it happen, but none cared enough to see what was going on in the aftermath.

I turned on my hazard lights, but I was certain this trip had ended before it had really even begun. I collected the largest piece of plastic from the muddy grass (turned out to be the air intake) and put it in the trunk. Might need it later?

About that time, a rude person honked his horn at me as he flew by, barely missing me. I mean, how do you just assume that I INTENDED to be in this position, in this situation?

A minute later, a state trooper pulled up with his lights going. I just knew I was about to get a ticket for “driving too fast for conditions” or something. Not today, it turned out.

“You okay?”

“Yeah, I just skidded up here, but I’m fine.”

“I’ll block this lane so you can back up and pull it onto the side and wait for a tow truck.”

“Okay, thanks.”

Tow truck. Yep, there goes this trip. Maybe I could get it fixed today, if it’s just superficial. I don’t really need that bumper to drive it, do I? Wait, will this car even start?

I fired it up, put it in reverse, wary that it wouldn’t be able to back up, up the slight wet incline behind me. But it did, no weird noises or sudden movements, and I maneuvered it to the right shoulder of the south-bound lanes. The trooper pulled up beside me, so I rolled down my window.

“How’s it look?” I was worried the bumper would be hanging off and he’d say I needed to wait for a tow truck.

“Looks good,” he said as he gave me the thumbs up. I gave him the thumbs up, and he sped off.

I googled the nearest auto repair and then held my breath as I put the car in drive. No temperature warning, no issues with engine speed, no noises, no idiot lights. Huh. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad.

Two miles later, I pulled into the GTAutomotive shop, crossing my fingers they would be able to help, or even willing to look at my car.

I got very lucky, yet again.

The receptionist—the wife of this husband-wife owned shop—listened to my story with a surprised look on her face, and her husband quickly agreed to take a look. They had no other patrons, so he drove my car in, put it on the rack, and inspected the damage. It was my first look underneath, as well. He told me about the air intake and how to make sure water didn’t get into the engine for the rest of my trip. He made a few manipulations of the metal body to help keep things in order, and then used some zip ties to anchor the front bumper to the metal body underneath it. I was impressed with his ingenuity. Then he lowered the car and took a look at the engine from under the hood. He pronounced it all fine, saying that I got lucky. I know, good sir, I know.

His wife commented on my open box of Cheez-its on the passenger seat, at which point I mentioned the turkey sandwich, as well. How did none of that even budge in all the spinning? We both agreed that it was certainly a minor miracle.

At the end of it all, I asked her how much I owed them for their trouble.

“Don’t worry about it.”

“Come on, seriously?”

“No, no, just drive carefully out there.”

I was dumbstruck. How completely lucky had I been, in the face of so much potential tragedy and expense?

No injuries, no other cars involved, no tow truck needed, no traffic ticket, nothing but superficial repairs necessary, and no charge for any of them.

I got back in the car and drove away. No traces of any rain, and no more on the rest of the ride up to Canton. But I have definitely been more careful in my driving since I left their shop.

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