Near dusk one night a few years ago during fall harvest, I was following a combine into town on a county road. I had my headlights on as I always do — headlights on before dusk and dawn, in fog or rain or snow. It was hard to see at that time of night. I’m finding as I age, I don’t like to drive at night. It never used to bother me. A lot of things never used to bother me.
So that evening, I was waiting for a chance to get by this huge combine. He was taking up his side plus almost half the other. Patiently, I was waiting to pass. Finally squeezing around him and going by, I marveled again at the sheer size of this piece of equipment. His back tire was almost taller than the roof of my car.
Farmers have a right to the road during harvest. Especially now: On some farms, they are harvesting a fifth crop of alfalfa while concurrently chopping corn. Right after the corn comes off, liquid manure is spread. There are lumbering machines of all shapes and sizes everywhere.
Soon, I discovered a car coming toward me without his lights on. A black car without his lights on — in the dusk of the evening. I got so mad. If he would have come seconds sooner, I might have hit him head-on simply because he had the audacity (or the stupidity?) to drive at dusk without his lights on.
Snapping my headlights on high beam, low beam (I know, I shouldn’t do that), I muttered out loud through gritted teeth, “Turn your lights on.” I was distracted by that car and checking my rearview mirror to see if I could tell he got my signal when thunk.
Oh-no-oh-no-oh-no. Oh yes. A deer had jumped out of nowhere. Because I was preoccupied, I had no time to react. It hit my left front tire area and rolled. I knew it rolled because I saw hooves. In the air. All four of them.
Slamming on my brakes, my purse flew, my water flew, my cell phone flew. Getting off the road, I turned into a farmer’s driveway, mere feet away. Shifting into park, I put my flashers on and, looking in my rearview mirror, saw the pretty good-sized doe stop, shake herself and run off. All of this took about 10 seconds.
Quick as lightning, thoughts bounced around in my head.
My husband is not going to be happy. He’ll say, “What?” As in, “What do you mean?” Not, “Repeat yourself, please.”
Do I call the police? I figured I’d have to see how bad it was. Oh goodness. How bad is it?
Gingerly, squinting with one eye closed like that’s going to make it less bad, I checked the car over and saw … nothing. Not even a scratch, nor a hair, nor a dent. Nothing. Huge relief! I was so fortunate. Getting back into my car, I crawled to my destination for that evening.
Every time after that scary moment, I have been driving around like a little old lady. I’m getting to where I’m going, especially at night, with my face up into the windshield, eyes roving back and forth, back and forth, shoulders scrunched. I scold myself, “Straighten up and sit back, for crying out loud.”
I drive 40 miles per hour darn near riding the brakes at dusk or just before dawn and for the life of me think every mailbox reflector is a deer and they’re going to jump out and hit my car and this time they’ll end up in the windshield and total the car and I’ll be taken to the hospital with glass in my face. My thoughts flare like gas on a fire.
That night after my close call, I got home and went straight to my husband.
“I hit a deer.”
“What?”
“I’m OK, and it didn’t do any damage to the car.”
His face softened.
“So, there was this combine…”
(“As for God, His way is perfect. The Lord’s word is flawless, He shields all who take refuge in Him. For who is God besides the Lord? And who is the Rock except our God? It is God who arms me with strength and keeps my way secure. He makes my feet like the feet of a deer, He causes me to stand on the heights.” Psalm 18:30-33, New International Version)
Kay Reminger was born and raised on a dairy farm, and she married her high school sweetheart, who happened to farm for a living in Leopolis. Writing for quite a few years, she remains focused on the blessings of living the ups and downs of rural life from a farm wife’s perspective.
