The Family Disaster

“Look out!  What are you doing?  Tony, Tony are you ok?  Somebody call an ambulance!”

This is how the story began back in 1973.

It was June 14, 1973.  It was 11:59.  The train was to arrive at 12:00. Every day we could see the smoke coming over the trees from the afternoon train.

“Hurry up!  Let’s go,” said my older brother Tim.  I was always getting yelled at.  I was the only girl out of a family of five. 

I was usually the last one to arrive at the tracks.  My brothers told me it was because I am a girl and girls are slower than boys.  I didn’t let myself believe that.  So today, I decided to challenge them with a bet.  I bet them that I could beat at least one of them to the tracks.

We all started racing across Fifth Street.  Fifth Street was the busiest and biggest street in the town.  My younger brother Chad was the first one to arrive at the tracks.  He was the youngest and most fit for the challenge.

Next Tim arrived.  He wasn’t fit, but I think he got a little head start.  

“Yes!” I told myself.  For once, I beat one of my brothers, Tony, to the tracks. 

We were halfway across the road when I heard a sound that I will never forget—the sound of tires screeching, screaming, horns blowing, and the sound of a train.

 I remember looking back to see Tony fly through the air.  It seemed like he was in midair forever.  Finally, he hit the ground.

 I remember seeing him lying on the ground screaming.  I looked back to where he had been standing at the time of the impact.  His cowboy boots were in the exact spot in which he stood before the pickup hit him, in an upright position.

I looked up and saw a red pickup.  A man was getting out.

 In thirty seconds a crowd had gathered.  A police officer stopped to help.  He walked up to my brother Tim and asked what happened.  My brother was speaking so fast that the event couldn’t pour out of his mouth quickly enough.

A man got out of the pickup and stumbled over to us.  He seemed to have a slur in his voice.  He asked us whose kids we were. We could immediately smell the alcohol on him.  So could the officer. 

Back in the 70’s there really wasn’t a punishment for drunk driving, except maybe a slap on the wrist and the order to get home.  The driver boldly asked why we were crossing the street and who our parents were.  His words slurred out of his mouth like a kid’s first words.    

The police officer asked Tim to come over to his car to fill out a report.  He told the officer that we were going to watch the train, just like every other day. We also told him my parent’s names, Floyd and Sandy. 

The ambulance arrived and loaded Tony to take him to the emergency room. Suddenly, we heard another screaming sound.  It was the sound of our old diesel pickup screaming down the road as fast as that old pickup could go. 

Dad got out of the pickup and arrived at the scene.  He wanted to know what happened.  We finally settled him down enough to tell him, but it wasn’t a minute later that he was fired up even more.  When I say fired up, I mean you don’t even want to be near him.  I had seen him fired up before, and I never wanted to see him that mad again.

Dad knew that the cops weren’t going to do anything to the drunk driver.  Our family was good friends with a cop in the small town of Lewistown, Montana.  Also back in the 70’s a victim either took care of it himself or nothing was going to happen about it.   

Dad was very protective of us.  He was an old cowboy who wasn’t afraid to settle his differences.  To this day, he is that way.  No matter what the conditions are, he will stick up for the right thing.  He’ll give you the shirt off his back, just as my mom would do. 

Well, dad went after the driver.  He started to beat him with his fists, and he just kept going. 

The crowd went crazy as soon as dad got the first punch in.  They tried to pull dad off but the officer held the crowd back.  The officer knew that the driver deserved everything he had coming.

Finally, after a couple of bruised eyes and some broken bones, the officer and the rest of the crowd pulled dad off the driver.    

Minutes later, we were on our way to the hospital.

All this time, I couldn’t help but feel guilty.  It was kind of my fault.    I should have been looking out for my brother.  If it hadn’t been for me trying to race him, it wouldn’t have happened.  However, my dad told me not to worry about it.  “Everything happens for a reason,” he said.

When we arrived at the hospital, we ran in.  The doctor had Tony on a bed and was inspecting him.  They told us he had broken and bruised his leg severely.  They also said there was a chance that Tony wouldn’t walk again.

We didn’t know what to think.  There was so much stuff he hadn’t done yet, and he was only twelve.  How could this happen to him?

However, after the doctors looked at the scans of Tony’s leg they told us he just bruised it.  My family has never been so worried.  After we heard the good news, we celebrated.

Weeks later when Tony was healed, he came home.  He told me to gather my brothers, out in the barn; he announced that he was happy to have us support him when he was at the hospital.  He told us we should go watch the trains come in as a family.   So, that is what we did for the rest of the night. 

Michael Payer