Highway Angel

By Arlene Kochberg

A fellow who does things that count, doesn't usually stop to count them.

~Variation of a saying by Albert Einstein

It was December 1976, and Ian and I had been married for all of two years. My parents had rented a two-bedroom condo in Florida and invited us down for the Christmas vacation. With airfare being out of the question, we decided to drive. At the time, we had a lemon yellow Honda Civic CVCC, which Ian sentimentally referred to as, our "pregnant roller skate." I just called it The Lemon... Oh, how I hated that car!

The weather forecast called for a snowstorm but, at twenty-two years old we were young and fearless. So we loaded up The Lemon and headed west on Hwy 401 to cross the border at Windsor. From there we would head south for the second Jewish "promised land" — Florida.

It was still quite early in the morning and, as predicted, the snowstorm had hit with a vengeance. Just a few hours into our drive, as we were approaching a Puslinch exit, our "trusty" lemon sputtered, coughed and died. Ian managed to coast us safely off to the side of the highway where we gently came to rest, buried in two feet of freshly fallen snow.

Undaunted, my gallant knight popped the hood, got out, and proceeded to poke and prod at the engine in the remote hope that, magically, it just might re-start; he had seen this done numerous times on TV shows, and it often worked. Not this time. Opening his door did however let out all the remaining warm air left inside the car.

So there we sat, shivering in the dark and the cold. There was no cell phone. In the wee hours of that early morning, as the wind howled, as the snow blew and our teeth chattered, we looked at each other in horror. We had no idea what to do.

After sitting in silence for what seemed like an eternity, a set of headlights emerged from out of the snowy haze. Behind the lights appeared an enormous dark blue Ford LTD, its massive snow tires belching out great wads of crushed snow as it approached our little yellow car. It slowly pulled up beside us and stopped. The driver's door swung open, and out stepped a large man, dressed in what looked like ex-lumberjack rags. Ian and I exchanged a fleeting look; I grabbed his hand and squeezed hard.

Ian tentatively opened his window. "Looks like you folks need some help," the big man said, in a deep voice that matched his size. He was certainly friendly enough... for a young couple who had lived all their lives in Toronto, maybe a bit too friendly. But with no sane alternatives, we climbed out of our disabled lemon and joined him in his car. I crawled into the cavernous back seat, Ian got into the front passenger seat, and we quickly exchanged a silent glance saying, "Good-bye. I love you."

Flustered, uncomfortable, and more than a little apprehensive, we drove off into the darkness, to places unknown, with this large stranger. We tried to break the disquiet with inane conversation. As for the man, he chatted away quite comfortably... perhaps a bit too comfortably.

Eventually we pulled up to a modest, old, two-story home situated in, what we would still refer to as "the sticks." Like condemned prisoners, we trod silently, following the big man towards his lair. Then, in the window, we noticed a disproportionately large, elaborately decorated Christmas tree sitting in the corner of an equally festively decorated living room. I whispered to Ian, "Let's not tell him we're Jewish!" In response, Ian threw me his "what-am-I-an-idiot?" look.

In the house, quickly embraced in the warm light of the Christmas spirit, which permeated throughout, we were cheerfully greeted by the man's wife and young daughter. After taking off his lumberjack coat, boots and hat, the man, who we now call Jim, kissed his wife, picked up the little girl and gave her a hug, and then picked up the phone. As he dialed an obviously familiar number, Jim told us he was having his good buddy, who owned the local gas station, tow our car to his station to have a look at it.

Our hosts then invited us to sit down to a delicious homemade breakfast. Breakfast was made even more enjoyable given the fact that, contrary to our initial fears, it looked like our remains would not be found years later, dismembered, in some remote field.

After breakfast, our rescuer drove us to the gas station. By the time we got there our little lemon had already been looked over. Parts, the mechanic told us, wouldn't be in until the late afternoon, and we weren't going anywhere until the next day. Without a moment's hesitation, Jim invited us to stay the night with him and his family. Having been raised in the indifference of big city life, we were flabbergasted at this continued "country" kindness.

We spent the remainder of the snowy day with this Norman Rockwellian family in their pre-Christmas wonderland, well fed and well rested. In the evening, we climbed the musty, creaking wooden stairs to the second floor where a comfy spare room awaited us. In the morning, after another hearty breakfast, we said our goodbyes and expressed our thanks to his wife and daughter, and then Jim chauffeured us back to the gas station. We paid our bill, gave our very sincere thanks to everyone for their extraordinary kindness and Christmas spirit, and puttered away in our little lemon. We never did tell them we were Jewish.

Perhaps overwhelmed by the entire incident, we didn't think to write down their contact information. Sadly, all these years later, neither Ian nor I recall his real name. Perhaps, if by some strange coincidental twist of fate, he or his family might read this, they might recognize themselves and finally know how truly grateful we were, and remain, to this very day.

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