July 20, 2017
Volume 47 - No. 28
Editor’s Note: This is the second of a series dedicated to the late Kent Ballard, a good friend and brilliant writer. Kent died several weeks ago; a combination of cancer and pulmonary thrombosis. As you may have noticed from last week’s story by Kent Ballard, “The Last Flight” he was a master storyteller. Kent was one of my favorite writers.
As a tribute to Kent, and for those who knew and loved his writings as much as we did, and for those who have not yet discovered him, we present this, the second in a series of reprints of stories Kent wrote.
Like “The Last Flight,” this story will have you hanging on every word.
Again, please enjoy the work of a great writer, a good pal, a bit of a rascal, and a super human being, Kent Ballard:
© 1992 by Kent Ballard
I met Mike about six months ago. I didn’t know he was a volunteer fireman until just last week. We found ourselves with some time to kill and we began to talk.
Somehow, the conversation turned towards auto accidents. He said that although he’d been on many emergency runs to car wrecks, he’d never been in a serious one himself. I told him I had, and that he wasn’t missing anything. It was a bad joke.
Mike continued. At last count, he had been on the scene of thirty-seven fatal accidents. I stopped and let that soak in for a while. It explained a few things about the fellow, one being his utter hatred for anyone who would dare drink and drive. I could see how nearly forty fatal accidents would make a guy that way.
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He told me about things he’d seen personally that would give me nightmares for years. I’ve happened across a few accidents, some involving cars, some not. I always tried to help if I could, and managed to concentrate long enough to make a difference of a couple of times. But I always got the jitters later. I marvel at the men and women who can do this all the time, knowing when the next call comes in they’ll have to go out and experience it all again. I’m thankful that there are people like that, but I’m not one of them.
He described several of the terrible accidents, and explained the techniques that professionals use to extract accident victims and start immediate medical care. The “Golden Hour” starts at the moment of impact, and every second counts. Mike spoke with well-deserved pride about his crew and the equipment, training, and dedication that they bring to bear in the fight against death itself. Surprisingly often, they win— but other times nothing within the power of human beings is nearly enough. Obituaries Memorials Area Services Page 12
As he spoke, I could tell that one part of the job haunted him despite his best efforts to hide it. He was a father of three. His oldest son was driving now, and when he’d mention a wreck involving kids—he’d seen a few—a dark look crossed his face. I quietly told him that my boys were just starting to drive too. Like all teenagers, they think they’re invincible. He look up sharply, “Let me tell you, they’re not.”
He’d loaded enough of them onto back boards, crying for their parents, to know better. He paused for quite a while, then blinked a few times. “You know, you do a job like this and you think you’ve seen it all. You can’t think of it as anything but a job, otherwise it’d eat you alive. You just have to let it roll off, man. But there was this one wreck we were called to… this one wreck…” …and his voice and expression both changed. I’m quite sure that he wasn’t aware of it. Part of him was already somewhere else—another place, another very bad day. •••••• Two families were leaving a house, all of them going to a
The Blind Hill Continued on Page 2
social event at the local high school. The parents and kids from both families were all long-time friends. Just so they could continue their conversations, it was decided that the parents would all go in one car, the kids in another. A seventeen year old boy was driving the younger folks. Everyone in the little rural community where they lived knew the boy. He was a good kid, all agreed. Had a good head on his shoulders. The other parents were confident in his driving.
The two cars left the driveway and the teenager took the lead. His parents and his friend’s parents fell in behind them on the highway. They had a few miles to go before they got to the school. The weather was good. The roads were dry.
About four miles south of the small town where the school was located, there was what was known locally as a “bad hill.” You can find a deadly spot like this in almost every county in the nation. It’s where a combination of hills, curves, or poor road design all come together to