The Rearview  − 15 April, 1986

My father is a sing-along-song traveler with four young kids in his rusty brown Ford station wagon, tooting his horn at this and that on the way to Virginia to visit Granny and Pa, his aging parents. We are being entertained by renditions of 99 Bottles of Beer, The Wheels on the Bus, and Old Mickey Dee with his good oinking farm, albeit still whining. "Are we there yet?" "I'm hungry." And the perennial favorite: "Uh-oh. I don't feel so good."

Whisking along the highway, we whistle out tunes, my dad as the bandleader, while the road ahead stretches into mountain territory. At a pit stop, Dad passes out doughnut-like objects and I stare curiously at the thing in my hands.

"What's this?" I ask suspiciously.

"A moon pie. Eat it, you'll like it. They're Pa's favorites," Dad replied in that efficient parent voice.

As we start back on the road from the gas station, my five-year-old hands twirl the chocolate brown pastry around. Looks good. I sniff it cautiously. Smells good. I take the tiniest bite from the very tip of the moon pie .... IS good.

While I stuff my face and savor every crumb of that delectable goodness that I know my dad was only getting away with because our health-freak mom is home on this vacation, the road has been twisting and turning, the lanes growing smaller and the curves sharper. We are halfway up the mountain before the majority of us had stopped singing about Miss Mary Mack and started screaming about our ears popping. Dad hands out some bubble gum to alleviate the ear pressure, so I reluctantly settle the new love of my life moon-pie in my left hand so I could open the gum with my right.

And that's when Dad glances in the rearview. The truck is picking up speed despite the quickly upcoming bend. Four small children in the car. Truck is gaining on the decline. Their breaks might be shot. Should he brake for impact? His children. Does he warn them? Do they turn to look and break their necks? Truck beeps, long, loud. The kids. No brakes.

BAM!

In an instant, it's over. The truck collides with our station wagon, sending it careening into the siderails. My dad quickly unbuckles and looks back. Three shocked but alive children stare back. He looks in the front seat, to me. I'm out. My head has hit the passenger-side window.

Sirens wail. A paramedic stands over me, his body tense.

"No broken glass, but she hit her head pretty hard," he's telling my dad when tears start streaming down my face.

"What's wrong, little lady?" he asks, bending down concerned.

The tears are flowing so hard that I can barely choke out the words. "Mhhmmnpayyyyy!"

He looks up quizzically at my dad, his neurons firing away with warning signs of severe concussions. "What?"

"Mhhh ... oooon .... piiii!"

My dad tilts back his head and laughter flows so thickly out of him that it echoes off the side of the mountain. The paramedic looks from me to him and those neurons get even busier. Delayed concussion for the father?

"She's crying because ... " Dad begins to tell him, pausing to catch his laughter. "Because she lost her moon pie!"

Looking over the dented bumper, past the wide-open side doors and into the passenger's side, there on the floor sits the dusty remnants of a rich chocolate brown moon pie. Man, that was delicious.

Comments:

kga245 (September 19, 2007. 03:23am)

Mooon piiieee!

intrepideddie (September 20, 2007. 05:30am)

Hey, for a moon pie, the 3-second rule is suspended. Blow the dirt and broken glass off that bad boy and dig in! (Hell, after a car accident like that, I'd sure need it.)

Bazookah 5 (September 20, 2007. 06:42pm)

I thought that it was a ten seconds rule. Like for Oreos. Ten seconds gives you time to pick it up, blow off dirt, look around, and put it all in your mouth. That's what I used to do when I was little ! Now I bake my own cookies...no more Oreos. But any moony cake parts falling are collected before a second. :-)