There are only two seasons in
Minnesota: winter and pothole repair, which is a local euphemism for summer.
Since it was not yet summer, my 1960 Fiat Spider had sustained some damage to
its undercarriage from one of these potholes. It was more like a cauldron hole.
Because parts for a Fiat had to come from Italy, I was driving a “loaner” from
the repair shop, a '50's something pea green station wagon.
By evening I was ready
to collapse, but I had a date, ostensibly to celebrate the end of another
school year. I got to Patti's house about 7 –
in my station wagon, where I was greeted by Frank. Normally I am not
intimidated by meeting a potential father-in-law, but he wanted me to follow
him into the basement. I might have been alarmed, but already sleep deprivation
had diminished my resistance and caution.
However, he only wanted to
show me his pet project – making wine. There were vats of fermenting mash and
paraphernalia everywhere. I feigned interest and asked a few dumb questions
when finally Patti called from upstairs. “Are you ready?” Oh yeah.
As we walked down the
driveway, she asked, “Where's the Spider?” After proffering an explanation, she
consented to get in, reluctantly.
We cruised around Minneapolis
until we were thoroughly lost. By 3:00 in the morning, we finally found our way
back to the right part of town and her house. There had been no petting or
making out, but I still shook with apprehension as I pulled into her driveway.
And sure enough, here comes Frank flailing his arms for me to wait for him.
The man had no concept of the
hour. He only wanted me to take a crock of mash home. Since the hour hadn't
disturbed him, I certainly didn't want to insult him by refusing to share his
hobby. We lowered the back seat which provided a metal platform on which to
place the 15 gallon crock of fermenting grape mash. Then I left for home,
relieved.
The soporific drive lead to a
predictable conclusion. BANG! I had fallen asleep, and veered into a very stout
tree. My head struck the steering column and I was knocked unconscious. The
inertial forces on the wine vat sent it sliding forward until it struck the
back of the bench seat. A tsunami of grape mash inundated everything in front.
As I regained consciousness,
my head was resting on the steering wheel with my gaze focused on the window
ledge of the driver's door – on a grape. In my confused state, I figured it
must be my eye. I reached out for it and was trying to put it back in the
socket, when the policeman appeared at my window and asked if I had been
drinking.
I was befuddled. Here I was
trying to restore my sight when he wanted to know if I had been drinking. Of
course, I didn't realize the whole car smelled like a brewery, or what it must
have looked like to see me pressing a grape into my bloody face. He wanted to
see me walk and was kind enough to open the door for me. As my only support was
removed, I tumbled to the ground and lapsed back into unconsciousness. I was
next aware of someone yelling profanities at me, accusing me of damaging her
beautiful tree. I laid there absorbing verbal abuse until the ambulance arrived
and rescued me.
After getting my broken
nose temporarily set at the hospital and few hours of R and R, I was allowed to
leave, but not before answering a few innocuous questions from my friendly
police officer who had been waiting all this time. He was sure he could get me
on a DUI, but an intern assured him that the only alcohol was on me, not in me.
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