A meandering blog of broken things … of garage doors, the Taliban and flower seeds

By Mary Kay Roth

This isn’t the blog I was planning to write.

My initial concept was hatched on Christmas Eve when my car was clobbered from behind for the second time this year. While slowing for a traffic light, a woman plowed into the car behind me, and that car in turn ran into mine.  The driver in the back car was a dear woman, dressed up in holiday finery, significantly injured, a woman I held close as we waited for the emergency medical folks to arrive. 

Eventually, both drivers from the other two cars were taken to the hospital that evening. And as the dusk settled on Dec. 24, I found myself sitting cross-legged on the sidewalk, waiting a couple hours while police processed paperwork. I was lucky to be unharmed, but was feeling quite unanchored. 

Thus the concept for a January blog began to form: A past year of broken things.

In a summer bicycling accident this year, I broke my wrist and lost a pricy cap off my front tooth. My ancient roof shingles finally gave way. My poor dog had two close calls with death over the past 12 months, a mystery malady and a ferocious dog attack.  Right now my cell phone is completely shattered right down to the internal gears. This most recent traffic accident is shoving my car into the body shop – again.  And to top it off, I backed into my garage door last month and every time it goes up and down, more wooden pieces fall off. 

So, I was going to write about shattered pieces – with the backdrop of Jan. 6 and a crushed country packed with political madness, COVID dialed up to red again, systemic racism, labor shortages and grocery shortages.  

Admittedly, the plan for my blog wasn’t fully formed, but you probably get the drift.  My theme was heading into the Pit of Despair.  

Then two things happened.

• On the morning of New Year’s Eve an unexpected “freeze fog” turned Interstate 80 into an ice-skating rink and left me stranded at a Bellevue truck stop.  But in a sweet surprise, two kind-hearted truckers guided me home. I have no idea how those truckers voted or how they stood on vaccinations, but they paused on the road to help a stranger. Thanks to them, nothing broke that morning. 
• Several days later I was working on a freelance story and interviewed four tenacious young-adult siblings, refugees from Afghanistan. The two brothers had worked for the U.S. military, consequently the entire family was at risk of Taliban retaliation. Fairly fluent in English, one brother told a compelling story of their escape and of how blessed they felt to find a home in Lincoln. Toward the end of the interview, however, I spoke to the issues they still faced and asked how they were feeling about inevitable challenges. The brother who had been sharing their story paused, smiled and said, essentially: “The Taliban are not trying to kill us. I don’t have many complaints.”

Busted. Somehow my original blog of despair was breaking apart (so to speak).  

After all, earlier this week my fabulous dentist replaced my front crown with something made of even stronger material (though he declined my offer to test it out).  My wrist is mostly healed with a very cool scar. My dog, Zuzu, is alive and as neurotic and glorious as ever. And I just ordered a brand-new coral-colored phone that has no chunks missing.

A few days ago, I had tea with a friend who shared her favorite meme from this past year. It pictures two people, looking into the future. The first describes how bleak and futile the world looks, while the other talks of color and hope on the horizon.  

Person No. 1: “Good grief the world is totally messed up. How can you see any hope?”

Person No. 2: “Because I am planting flower seeds.”

In the end, dear readers, I extend my sincere apologies because this is one of those maddening blogs that flies around in circles – and I’m not quite sure how to bring it in for a landing.

I read somewhere that the world's population was projected to be 7.8 billion people on New Year's Day, 2022 – almost 332.5 million in the United States … with our country experiencing a birth every nine seconds.  

So, there are 332.5 million people in this country who have choices each and every day. We can break but we can mend. We can write hate mail or love letters. We can invest. Listen.  Recycle. Get civic. By god, we can protest.  Hang onto our passion. Give blood. Sponsor a refugee family. Donate hair. Thank a service person.  Pet a dog (or cat).  Create a care package.  Live and love.  

Granted, my garage door is still broken and that pretty much sucks.

But when I think back to my Christmas Eve accident I remember that no less than 20 people slowed and stopped, offering to help. Recently, I have discovered both other drivers are home from the hospital. And my fine mechanic says – lucky me – I will likely have another brand-new bumper with a clean slate for a fresh crop of bumper stickers.

Undoubtedly, more things are gonna break this year.  But I will resolutely paste and tape and nail them back together.  I’ll stock up on super glue – as well as flower seeds. And when I foresee a possible slide into the blackest of despair, I will ask the important question: “Is the Taliban trying to kill you today?”