In 1956, we often danced in our stocking feet. That was called a sock hop. It was usually held in the high school gymnasium after a basketball game. As our parents left one such game, my friend Jeannie and I assured them that if we could stay for the dance, we could grab a ride home with friends.
We jitterbugged and two-stepped the evening away while, unknown to us, an unexpected storm swept snow and sleet through Burns, Ore., our small, high-desert town. The dance ended and, although we’d promised otherwise, we decided to walk home instead of finding a ride. It didn’t seem like a big deal. First mistake.
Dressed in calf-length skirts and wearing slick-soled saddle oxfords — no boots — we stepped out into the night. The building locked behind us. The weather had turned nasty, but we were committed. We decided to skip our usual Main Street route home and take a shorter way, down the hill next to the new hospital. Second mistake.
We were chattering about the dance, still warm and flush with excitement. But then we rounded the corner just before the crest of the hill, and immediately the wind felt fiercer, blowing silty, grainy snow into our faces.
Hospital construction had left a wide ditch, already full of deep snow, between the road and the sidewalk. To trudge through snow above our calves seemed foolish. We walked in the road instead. Third mistake.
Jeannie took the slicker roadside and I took the snowier ditch-side. We locked arms, bent our heads against the wind and baby-stepped our way judiciously down the right-hand side of the street. We’d already wrapped our long scarves over our heads, around our necks and into our dark coats, but the biting wind still found a way inside. We ducked our heads deeper inside our scarves and plowed forward.
Headlights from behind suddenly lit the road. We skated our way closer to the ditch, unaware that the car at our backs was skidding out of control and headed right for us.
The impact was a snow-muted, dull-sounding thud, barely audible under the howling wind.
Action became like a film in slow motion. I caught the smallest glimpse of Jeannie moving underneath the sliding car. My scream was silenced by the sound of the wind and I felt a sudden sharp blast of snow pepper my face and fill my mouth. I was aware of sinking into the soft, deep drift of white in the ditch before I was quietly swallowed by an unfamiliar blackness.
I don’t know how much time passed before I recognized the voice of a classmate — the driver of the car. He was trying to lift me to my feet. I was lightheaded and dizzy. It all came rushing back — the momentary flash of Jeannie disappearing underneath the car.
“Where’s Jeannie?” I stammered. She was dead. I was sure of it.
I had trouble making sense of what the driver was saying because tunnel vision and darkness still threatened. All I could think was that the blasted wind was stealing away his words. I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear his answer anyway.
It seemed like a long time before I saw his girlfriend coming toward us with her arm around Jeannie. I finally let out a breath and cried.
Our friends drove us home, asking again and again if we were OK. Naturally, in our shocked state, we said we were fine. (Today I think it ironic that we were next to the hospital and not one of us thought of going inside. Teenagers!)
After I was dropped off at home, I went straight to bed without telling my parents what had happened. I feared I was in big trouble. My leg and hip ached and burned as if on fire. I had chills. Something was wrong, but I still didn’t have the courage to face my parents.
It was a long night.
By morning the pain had worn down my reluctance and I told my parents the whole story. They weren’t as miffed as I’d expected — just glad I was alive, I suppose.
I was hurried off to the doctor’s house (those were the days when you could drop by like that, even on a Saturday). X-rays revealed a cracked pelvis, a chipped tail bone and disc misalignment. Less serious were the deep bruises dotting the backs of my legs. Jeannie had many scrapes and bruises and a wide patch of hair missing at the back of her head where the tire slid her along the icy road.
We learned an important lesson that night and were grateful not to sit through a dreaded parent lecture. Never, never again did either of us go to a dance without knowing exactly how we would get home — or without checking the weather.
