Using the Wrong Planner
“Bam! Screeeechhh…” My sunny bluegrass jam session was abruptly interrupted. The red Honda Civic convulsed and then shuddered as metal grated on blacktop. We obviously hadn’t hit any ordinary ice chunk. For all I knew, my infallible little car had struck the fatal iceberg, giving me only seconds to abandon ship. Uneasily, I glided the car to a stop on the icy shoulder of the freeway and clicked on the hazard lights. After a semi roared past, I jumped out and ran around to the back. Crouching, I cocked my head just past the recognizable bumper and exhaust pipe to the land of unknowns. What on God’s green earth is that ?! No gushing oil, no smoke, no dripping coolant—only a bizarre hook of metal dangling from the underbody. It was tangled with what appeared to be a black cable. Dialing home, I tried not to panic. This adventure definitely wasn’t written in my planner. My parents were 60 miles away. I was 15 miles from Bemidji and in arm’s reach of Cass...