betty:of course your answer is right, hazel. but that’s not the type of answer that sells keychains and gives hope I would tend to lean towards being virulently against outsourcing but again your answer was wise froma business standpoint hazel what is the meaning of life?
Hazel:I understand, we can have this one altered to be more patriotic.
Hazel:Life means to be able to fulfill your dreams.
Hazel:Our great country inspires us to dream and work towards achieving them
Hazel:And it certainly gives us the opportunity of doing so too, only we need to be ready to give back to it when it is asked of us.
betty:God?
Hazel:God has been very kind to us, and we can judge that from the fact that we were born as Americans.
betty:Hazel u r gonna make me cry!!! You have inspired me. You are a true patriot.
Hazel:Only a true patriot can recognize another true patriot : )
betty:No one has ever spoken more truthfully than you my sweet blue eyed friend.
Michele: Hi Betty.
Michele: Hazel is experiencing some technical problem with her computer.
Michele: Please let me have your email address so we can send you a copy of the chat transcript.
betty:Is this an automated program or is there a live person on the other end?
Michele: I am a live person : )
betty:Will you hold on a moment?
Michele: Sure thing!
Michele: Take your time
Thursday, September 12, 2002—LOS ANGELES
Less than an hour after she had won $26,000 on a television game show, my wife and I were driving south down Interstate 5, chatting happily in the carpool lane. All other lanes of traffic were bumper-to-bumper but ours was moving along at a healthy clip. To our right that slow-moving traffic, and to the left a cement retaining wall—it all happened so fast—a car to our right veered suddenly into our lane to get out of the way of a minor fender bender that was occurring in front of it—I didn’t have the time to react—I should have:
plowed into him, as his nose shot into our lane—
speedometer: 68 mph—and then
our car would have spun out in a counterclockwise direction into the cement wall to our left—
SMASH! we hit that and keep on spinning—
back into the stalled traffic—
and the car behind us—
plowsinto the side of our car—my wife
instantly and painlessly—while my head is battered back and forth and the cars continue to pile up on us, and on the third or fourth meeting of my head and our own car’s metal frame—after a very slowed down and prolonged period of pain—I do too— * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : *
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* : * : : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : : * : : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : : * : : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : : * : : * : * : * : * : * : * : *:
* : * : : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : : * : : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : : * : : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : : * : : * : * : * : * : : * : : * : * : * : * : *:* Kim Forbes: Is this you?
:* : * : * : * : * : * : * : : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : : * : * : * : * : * * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : : * : : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : : * : : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : : * : * : * * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : : *
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But instead, an angel took the wheel from me lifted the car up into the air:::carried us:::then set us back down again, safe and sound, four wheels, continuing on…
After that day, everywhere we went, cars were crashing into one another on all sides. We saw accidents on the freeway in oncoming lanes, lanes far to the side, sometimes we came upon them right after they had happened,
people sitting in their cars in a field of glass in the fast lane in a daze…
Cars would weave at us suddenly and I’d have to swerve off the road to keep from being hit. It seemed every time we got in the car, we left a trail of wrecked metal and bleeding bodies in our wake. We started to wonder:
Is there something going on around here?
Is this a pattern?
It had all seemed to begin with:
One afternoon we had gone to dinner at my parents’ house in Federal Way. After dinner, we’d sat around the living room. My brother and his wife and their baby were there. We talked awhile, and then they said they had to take the baby home and put him to bed, so they got all their stuff and packed him in the car and left. My wife and I stayed another hour or so, talking. Then we got ready to leave. We had a last-minute cup of coffee first. I took a whiz. We hugged each other. Then we left. We got in our car, waved goodbye, and drove down the hill to the arterial. We stopped at the stop sign at the bottom. It was evening but it was still bright. I signaled, looked both ways, then turned left onto the street.
A few seconds later a kid in a gold Toyota passed us coming the opposite way. If I slow it down I remember looking over and seeing him in profile—
I looked forward again—
my wife looked back because she sensed that something was unfolding.
She saw a woman in a green minivan pull out into his lane from a side street, crossing in front of him, very slowly, blocking his path completely.
Instead of plowing into her driver’s side door with all of his force, he
turned the wheel to the right in an attempt to get around her—
my wife screamed:
W: Look what she made him do!—
his tires screeching—
It’s gonna!
I looked back in my rearview mirror—
somehow he got around the green minivan,
his car hopped the curb at the corner then into a front lawn
now the car was headed directly for a house,
but then he turned the wheel again and somehow
grass spitting up from his wheels
managed to get all four tires back on the road, his car now moving forward once again in its proper lane—
and for a second it seemed that everything was going to turn out okay,
but his tires never could find purchase, the rear wheels hopped and skipped like a fishtail behind him—
then one of them skipped high and hit the curb which caused his car to break sharply left
into oncoming traffic, at which point he was T-boned by an enormous black SUV at a perfect ninety degrees.
In the mirror, I saw his windows explode and glass rain down.
* : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * : * :
—Oh my God! my wife cried. She killed him!
I pulled over. The woman in the minivan, who had caused the accident, passed us, and then she pulled over too, into the parking lot of a Jack in the Box; we saw her look back at the accident. Brake lights red.
Then she took her foot off the brake. We watched her drive slowly on through the parking lot, then to an exit. Then she turned back onto the street. We watched her drive away.
My wife rooting through the glove compartment, looking for a piece of paper and a pen, saying: 192 LS 192 LS 192 LS 192 LS 192 LS 192 LS 192 LS 192 LS 192 LS …
A week later we went down to the Federal Way Police Headquarters to follow up with the cop who’d taken our original report at the scene. As we sat outside his office, waiting to be called in, I picked up the local newspaper and read about the accident.
Says here “He Was Driving Too Fast and Lost Control.”
★
After he called us in, the cop sat us down. He said he’d visited the woman whose license number my wife had written down. The woman had claimed that she did not know about any accident, had not caused any accident, had not seen any accident, had not pulled over to look back upon any accident. Had not looked back upon any accident, and had not then driven away from any accident (in her green minivan). And so the cop had thanked her for her time and left. Now he thanked us for our time!
But before he did he said:
Are you Pastor Mike’s son?
M: Yeah.
> 11, 4-8, Angie Yohe, 1995. 4-8, Melanie Long, 1998. 13, 4-4, Kristen Miner, 2006. 4-4, Kim Forbes, 2006. 15, 4-2 12, Krista Oyler, 1995 …
“Oh, shit, he got hit hard, he got hit really fucking hard. Shit, god, shit, he got hit hard.”
We ran up to the scene. A group of people had already gathered around. The boy’s door was open and a woman was kneeling in the street beside the car, feeling under his chin and speaking to him in a soft voice, as if she were his mother. She had a medical kit and I assumed she was a nurse. The boy’s eyes were closed, and he was shaking, moaning. He appeared to be having a conversation with someone. There were two people in the SUV that had crushed him, a man and a woman, and they were reclined now in their seats. A few people stood around them, speaking to them through an open window. Most of us stood off to the side, quietly, in a grassy area on the side of the road. People came from all around. We watched the woman kneeling beside the boy, whispering. And then the ambulance came. I won’t describe the way they finally took him out. I won’t describe them pulling him out of his car, tugging at him so roughly. They’re going to paralyze him! I thought. They should hold his neck better!
He was a big kid for seventeen. He was a golfer. He’d placed second in State the year before. And just two weeks before this accident, he’d shot a 61 at a pro-am tournament in Spokane, one shot shy of the course record. The cop we’d later meet was walking back and forth down the center of the street, taking pictures of the long tire treads, of the torn-up grassy shoulder, and of the two smashed vehicles, piecing together the
scene.
But there was no sign of any woman or any minivan—she was long gone—so there was no reason to believe that any woman in any minivan had ever existed.
And the crowd as crowds do was speaking; they were all telling one another what they had seen. And when one would hear another new detail from his left, he would turn to the person to his right and repeat it, as if he had been the one to see it! No one mentioned a woman or a green minivan.
They all said “He was driving too fast and lost control.”
★
> Kim Forbes’s URL. http: //www .bebo .com/ kim forbes0. Member Since. November 2006. Kim Forbes says:. “Work sucks, buses suck & rude people suck! …
> Bush Seeks Nuclear Disclosure From Kim - Forbes.com
The ambulance came, and they pulled the boy from the car and placed him on a gurney and worked on him in the middle of the street; his eyes were closed, but his lips were moving, and his head was rocking back and forth as if he were arguing with someone—
And the boy’s mother came running up—a family friend had come upon the scene and, recognizing the car, called the mother on her cell phone—
then his chest and stomach began to heave and roll in some sort of seizure that I have never been able to adequately describe, I’ve written the scene many times and then each time erased
Melissa don’t hang up the phone. Melissa don’t hang up the phone. Stay on the phone, OK? Gotta keep communicating. Don’t hang up the phone
[deleted]
theMystery.doc Page 16
