While working at Boeing in 1943, I bought a 1933 Plymouth for $50. It was really beat up, rusting out and in need of motor work. But it steered more easily than my old Model A Ford. I drove it till the day my wife and I decided to have a picnic at Martha Lake, north of Seattle.

We had our firstborn son Michael in the front seat with us. Some friends were riding in the rumble seat.
Somewhat frustrated after getting lost trying to find the place, we were heading down a steep hill to the lake going about 35, when we hit a huge chuckhole.

We suddenly found our car veering off the road, while watching both front wheels roll down the road in front of us. As we headed helplessly for a ditch, we were absolutely out of control.

The car narrowly missed a phone pole and crashed head-on into a giant pile of brush workmen had cut and left for later disposal. Nobody had a scratch. The baby didn't even cry.

We were in momentary shock from our miraculous escape but then got out to assess our problem. The wooden spokes had broken out of the wheels (the rims and tires were what we had seen rolling down the hill) and the headlight glass was broken.

Luckily, a Good Samaritan gave us all a 40-mile lift back to our place on Star Lake in Federal Way.
The next day I found a couple of used wooden spoked wheels, got a lift back to the brush pile and drove the miracle car home. My guardian angel had to be with us that day.

How else can I explain surviving a car wreck which tore my dad's car in half, a gunshot in the chest by a fellow golfer, a battle with colon cancer, a near miss by a huge boulder on Mt Hood, a 5-way bypass operation on my heart and a race with a freight train when we took a handcar onto the main track.