David Cohen illustration
On that wintry morning, I was driving to my teaching job at Warren Wilson College in Swannanoa, North Carolina. It was 25 degrees outside. I wore a coat and tam but had forgotten my gloves. My Ford Escort’s heater blew warm air, and as I headed up Old Fort Mountain on my commute from McDowell County to Buncombe County, I was comfortable. But this five-mile section of Interstate 40 was steep, curvy, and busy. Four miles up the mountain, my car began losing power. I pressed the gas pedal, but the car continued to slow down. In a panic I realized it was going to stop mid-traffic, so I pulled into the emergency lane.
The engine died. I tried to restart the car but it wouldn’t budge.
This was 1985, so I had no cell phone then to call my husband or father. I considered getting out and trying to walk to Ridgecrest or Black Mountain, where I might find a telephone. But that walk would be too long and dangerous. Pickup trucks and cars whizzed by, tractor-trailers shaking my car as they sped past.
Eventually, a silver Mercedes with a Georgia license plate stopped. A man in dress slacks and cardigan sweater came to my window and offered me a ride. I thought he resembled Tom Netherton, a singer on The Lawrence Welk Show. His demeanor was mannerly and professional. Yet something about him made me hesitant. I said, “Could you call the Highway Patrol for me?” I knew he would get to Black Mountain soon and find a telephone there.
“Sure,” he said and returned to his car.
Well, I’ve thrown my help away, I thought, my teeth chattering from the cold and my nerves. I rested my head against the steering wheel, wanting to cry.
But then a green Hornet with a dent in its rear pulled in front of me, and a man got out and came to my window.
“What happened, ma’am?” he asked. He looked to be in his 30s, wearing worn-out jeans and a flannel shirt. His hair was greasy and uncombed.
I explained how my car had lost power, and I barely got it off the road before it died.
“I’ll take a look,” he said and went to open the hood. “Can you turn it over?” he yelled. I turned the ignition key, but nothing happened.
I went and stood beside him and watched him detach a hose and blow in it and tighten a bolt with his wrench.
“I don’t know, ma’am,” he said, puzzled. I kept my hands stuffed in my coat pockets and noticed how red his hands were. “She ain’t going nowhere.” After a minute he said, “Could we give you a ride? My mama’s with me.”
I saw the woman in his passenger seat. She wore a kerchief like the one my mother wore.
I gathered my things and crawled into his back seat. He apologized for his car being dirty. His mama turned her head and said, “Hey, honey.” “Hey,” I said. I explained that I was on my way to Warren Wilson College when my car broke down. While we drove to Swannanoa, no one spoke a word.
When we arrived at the campus, I directed him to the administration building where I wanted to be dropped off. After I got out of the car, I took a ten-dollar bill from my wallet—all the cash I’d carried. I held it to him and said, “I want to give you something for your trouble. I wish I had more to give you.”
“No, ma’am,” he said, shaking his head.
“But I want to pay you something.”
“No, ma’am,” he said. “We was headed in this direction anyway.”
I insisted; he relented.
Through the years, I’ve thought about that frigid day when my car broke down on Old Fort Mountain. And I’ve wondered why I was wary of the well-groomed man yet trusted the unkempt man and his mama. I think it was because the mother and son were common people like those I’d always known and cared for. That made the difference.