A Memorial Day He Can't Forget

It never ceases to amaze me what my dad keeps in his head. He’s one that would much rather listen than talk. I wonder who I take after.

When the subject of “dumb things teen-agers do” came up, he told me a story of him and his brother speeding down a busy street in north Minneapolis in an older vehicle with practically no brakes. His brother of course was driving. As they crossed the railroad tracks, my dad who was in the back seat looked out the rear window and saw the train literally four feet from their back bumper.

What’s amazing though is the fact that they kept speeding around the northern side of town until they came across a sight that to this day was hard for my dad to completely describe. The year was 1950. The day was Memorial Day. As they headed east and crossed the Mississippi River, they came upon another intersection of tracks and road. But this one forced them to stop, for the train was already blocking the road. And in the foreground was a Chevrolet sedan that didn’t make it. A family of four was strewn across the field. The bodies and parts of the car were separated by over a hundred yards. The husband was close to the initial impact, his lifeless body was covered in gravel, but blood managed to gurgle out of his mouth. The infant child was also dead. The mother was many yards away, but missing a leg. The engine of the car was thrown dozens of yards. A second child was thrown from the car but survived. It was a very gruesome site, one that received substantial coverage in the next day’s newspaper. My dad remembers it being discussed at school the next day. But he never told me if he shared his first hand experience with the class. Was it too hard for him relate the story? Or was he too shy then also?

I should have asked him, but I mostly just listened.