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Our 1928 Willys-Knight had been climbing for at least ten miles, one hairpin turn after another, under a threatening sky. Though it was early September, the temperature was close to ninety degrees. There was a stillness in the air and a steady buildup of dark, lowering cloud banks to the east. "Kenneth, the car's overheated!" Mother's voice was anxious. "I'm aware of it," Father replied. Rivulets of perspiration were streaming down the back of his neck.
"Shouldn't we stop and let the radiator cool off?"
"I will, Louise, as soon as I can find a place to pull over."
There had been increasing irritation between my parents ever since Mother, custodian of the map, had suggested some sixty miles back that the most direct road to Alderton was west on Route 30. Dad did not agree and had chosen Route 143, which approached Alderton from the northeast. A mistake. Route 143 was poorly paved and endlessly curving. We were all on edge this late summer day of 1934. Four consecutive days on the road, seven-hundred-odd miles, four blowouts, five people jostled all the way from Timmeton, Alabama, to western Pennsylvania. Mother had driven most of those miles because I had yet to obtain my driver's license and my father was still having those attacks of malaria. For most of the trip I had been shut up in the back seat with the animal energy of Tim, eleven, and Anne-Marie, nine. Every waking moment my younger brother and sister had wriggled and fidgeted, poked one another, and me, and chattered incessantly. I felt bruised and battered, my clothes a mess.
In an effort to ease the tension, Mother began giving us a running commentary on what we would see on Dad's alternative route to Alderton." We'll be going down Seven Mile Mountain now. The map shows a little village not too far ahead. Yancyville, it's called. Oh, and here's something interesting," she added. "A lake." She held the map to get a closer look. "It's called Lake Kissawha. Indian name, I suppose." As she spoke, dark clouds suddenly blanketed the landscape. Then the sky emptied. There were no separate raindrops; rather it seemed as if giant hands had overturned cloud-buckets. Lightning and thunder-claps followed--eerie, terrifying. And at that moment white steam began to rise from the car radiator.
Anne-Marie started to cry softly. Hunched over the wheel, Dad searched through the downpour for a place to pull off. There was a bump; we skidded off the road and began sliding to the right. Frantically Dad twisted the wheel, fighting the slide. No use. We ended up with the two rear wheels in a water-filled ditch.
As Dad turned off the ignition, his hands were shaking. "Now let's all stay calm," Mother said crisply. "Nobody's hurt. We'll be all right."
After about five minutes the deluge stopped and the sky lightened. Gratefully we rolled down the windows; the closed car had been like a steam-oven. Dad started the engine but the back wheels only spun crazily, churning mud. Gunning the motor merely sank the heavy old Willys deeper into the ditch.
Then we heard a heart-stopping sound--a roaring, crashing noise from the steep slope just above us. Startled, we looked up to our right and saw a river of water pouring down the side of the mountain. It crashed onto and over the car, water gushing through the open windows, soaking us. Then it surged across the road, tore off a route marker, and churned down the asphalt surface for fifty feet before plunging over the side of the mountain to our left, sweeping along rocks and small trees in its path. We sat silently in the car, paralyzed by our narrow escape. Then dazedly, almost like a film in slow motion, my parents began mopping up the water in the front seat. Suddenly Dad's body slumped forward against the steering wheel. I could see a vein throbbing in his neck. In a panic I clambered over Tim and opened the car door. "I'll go for help," I said, catching Mother's distressed eyes.
High school tennis had strengthened my legs. I ran back along the road we had traveled, avoiding the debris and the worst puddles. My eyes were searching the downhill side of the road, now to my right, for the building I thought I had glimpsed through the trees.
Yes, there it was, some kind of rustic lodge or inn near the shore of the lake. The side road I turned into was steep, slippery underfoot. As I ran, I spied in the distance the figure of a man in a green sports shirt emerging from the building.
At that instant my foot caught in a fallen branch. Down I went, sprawled on all fours--mud all over the front of my skirt, spattered on my blouse and face.
"I say, what a nasty tumble--"
The man was now standing over me, hand outstretched. He was younger than I had thought.
"My family needs help," I stammered, spurning his hand and scrambling to my feet. I pointed toward the road. "Up there."
"Was there an accident?"
"Yes, our car slid into the ditch. I think my father's hurt."
"Should I call an ambulance?"
"I don't know." "Let's have a look." He set off at a rapid pace, with me trotting to
keep up, trying to get my tangled hair out of my eyes and wiping furiously at the mud.
"Beastly day for motoring. Tell me what happened," he tossed over his shoulder at me.
A clipped English accent, reddish-blond hair. He seems nice, I thought. "We were driving up from Alabama. My father's Kenneth Wallace, the new publisher of The Alderton Sentinel."
At the main road I pointed the way toward our disabled car. After rounding several curves we saw it. My father was still in the driver's seat, but I rejoiced to see that he was sitting upright.
The young man bounded forward. "I'm Randolph Wilkinson. Are you injured, sir? How can I help?"
