The accident happened on account of my doubt. I doubted Amish woodworkers.  And you can’t call them, either.  First thing upon waking  I got into the van to drive a quick note to where they’d find it. I started the ignition, but there was dog-dog not on the porch. I hollered at her through the open passenger window, and she slinked and cowered (which is only a wind up for chasing the vehicle) so I hopped out to place her on the porch, making bad dog eye contact with her, when partway to the correction I heard the crunching of tires  behind me.

I turned around and there was the back of the van departing from me, rocking back and forth as if being driven by a contented motorist who left the driver door open and slowly wagging b’bye-now, rocking in the lumpy wet green field, gaining a little downhill slope speed on the long dewy summer morning field, rockity it made soft swishes with its tires and I busted in crocs flip flops into the tall wet grass running my best time warp and I reached and reached on slipperier flops until the right flip popped just as my fingertips lost their first attempted graze with the accelerating it’s-all-over-now driverless door and the voice of the god of reason yelled Stop, Dumbass before the accident not worth having happened.

Groaning and doing a defeated one-croc halt, I watched the shiny silver van faster and faster avoiding every tree, veer off to the left, swift as adieu. It slipped into the dark woods as if it knew the way between small trees that might have slowed it but gulp it was gone and I drank it with my eyes never to see again, a van swallowed whole and nearly silently down a gully in the roadless Kentucky woods.

The hatchback made one more appearance like a whale tail, and I waited long enough to question the possibility of a silent outcome, when THuD, followed by a complex crunch of metal, plastic and wood.

I heard the four tires stop their whispering, and the tree take a bite of the very center of the front end as if it had called the bold silver H to it with faint, alluring humming and charming snake eyes.

And then the hown, here’s Dick to give us the right word, both a horn and a howl, the incessant long hown peeled the soft misty morning wide open.

Running barefoot for other shoes, texting the nearest neighbor to tell them I was alright, all 7:20 a.m. when they are done with coffee for the day and thinking about lunch, hooowwwwwwwnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn they were probably like oooooh, she’s awaaaake. And then I called, slowed to a barefoot run-walk, a local I know who is contracted with the county to clean up the machinery aspects of interstate accidents, and explained, asking him what I should do, the van horn adorning my woe in the background hooowwwwwwwnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn He was already in his truck on the way to Ghent with a few ole’ boys for some kind of making the surface of the earth a little better for Man project, viaduct construction, water line placement, getting your dirt out of boss Kean’s ditch.  He was probably at waffle house at the interstate, and only saying Ghent to buy himself a few minutes to gather guys, and charge them steep to come see about the van gone over the hill, and get ideas about my driving that I’d like to make them sorry for in driving-trailers-in-reverse contests.

with shoes and phone-as-camera, I climbed down the rocky wooded hillside to the site hooowwwwwwwnnnnnnnnn there was fuming and i thought better of seeing if the electric ignition switch might turn that dying hown off. I would have disconnected the battery but the engine compartment was in the belly of the tree.

Get Away was the next right thing, and I scrambled back up the hill and poured my first cup of coffee. Minutes later arrived L with a truck bed full of dudes at the maximum pinnacle of motorcycle hoary, who hopped out of the back of the old blue pickup like they weren’t all way over 50, and I think I saw true delight in them when I pointed to the dark break in the trees part way out the field that the thin silver tracks led into like directions drawn on a visitor’s map. They went and got their backhoe.

After many helpings of  insurance on cell phone and initialing of triplicates, the day continued to unfold and I found the Amish men at work. I told them the story of the crash, and showed them pictures, worrying a little if looking into the screen taints them, and they were smiling and laughing, I imagine, at the absurd world of trouble visible on the other side of the little glass panel in my hand. After that I told them about my concern, and not to worry, they showed me how everything is coming together fine as most folks don’t have the mind for.

The van is totaled and being towed way far to a pick and pull called Go-Part  about 50 miles away on Dixie Highway.