(FREE) February Letter from the Editor
by Kelsey Wagner | Editor-in-Chief
The following article appeared in the print issue of Ponca City Monthly magazine, which includes hyperlocal stories about Ponca City. Get full access to all online articles, videos, and content by becoming a paid subscriber. We offer free and paid subscription plans. Find rack locations to pick up your free print copy here, or subscribe here to get online access plus exclusive content.
A very long time ago, way back in the year 2003, I was just a poor kid in high school who was working at a fast-food restaurant to make some extra money. I lived in Lamont, so in order to get a job, I had to drive 20 miles east to Tonkawa. I worked there for several years in high school. It was a great job. First of all, healthy sandwiches for dinner every day? Yes, please. Coming home smelling like fresh baked bread? Absolutely. The job involved making sandwiches, cutting veggies, and cleaning, primarily. It was one of my favorite jobs as a teenager. The only part of the job I didn’t like was driving home at 10 pm. After a full day of school (from 8 am -3:30 pm) and then working the evening shift (5 pm -10 pm), I was exhausted on my drive home. However, the road between Tonkawa and Lamont is generally sparse with traffic, and it was a straight shot home. I never had any issues, that is, until I did.
It was a cold, clear night in January. I was tired, as usual, and ready to get home. I had just pulled off the interstate and was heading into the darkness on Highway 60 driving west from the Tonkawa exit, when I came upon a long trailer full of huge, round hay bales. The trailer was pulled by a big one ton farm truck with a flatbed and a massive grille guard. The trailer was moving at a glacial pace, so I figured they were just heading home after a long day of work like me, but going slowly and carefully. I was raised around farm equipment, and I know when you are loaded down on the highway going slow, you sometimes pull over to let cars go around you so you don’t impede traffic. So, as I came upon this truck and trailer, I followed them for a bit, going slow, and then decided to go around them. Just as I was pulling up and around the truck, I heard the most god-awful CRUNCH, and before I knew it, my car was being pulled to the left and back. Crap, I thought. I got out to look, and sure enough, this old farmer was turning and turned right into me, and his grille guard had taken a nice little chunk out of my car.
I was exhausted, but my car was drivable. In fact, the grille guard missed the tire and the door, so my car was mechanically fine, besides the unsightly gash. Exacerbated, I stepped out and talked to the nice farmer, who also had a farm hand with him. They offered for me to sit in the farm truck while the police officer came to fill out a report. I said, “So, I guess your blinkers on your trailer don’t work?” This accident was obviously his fault, I thought. He said no, they didn’t work, and that he felt terrible about my car. We swapped pleasantries while we waited for the cop to come make a report. The police arrived, asked us a bunch of questions, took pictures, and to my absolute surprise, the police informed me that I was at fault in the accident. “Ma’am, you passed in a no-passing zone, so it doesn’t matter that his blinkers were not functional; you shouldn’t have passed.” They issued me a nice big ticket for passing in a no-passing zone. Seriously? You could have picked my jaw up off the floor. So there I was, a poor kid, with a poor car with a nice big gash and a nice big ticket. Sitting out on that road at 11pm, I couldn’t help but laugh at the absurdity of the situation. Oh well, I thought. I could have been angry, but I just wasn’t. I’m alive, I thought; my car is still drivable, and this could have been so much worse. The farmer truly felt terrible. I didn’t get his name at the time, but I remember he had a very sweet smile. I truly enjoyed his company. We shook hands, wished each other well, and then headed our separate ways.
A few weeks later, I got a package in the mail with signed and personalized books by this old farmer. He had sent me some of his cowboy poetry, signed and dated, with a nice message. It was the sweetest gift. Joe Kreger. Huh, I thought, who is that? Little did I know the State Poet Laureate Joe Kreger was the nice old farmer who ran into me that night in 2003.
I keep those books on my bookshelf as a reminder that even when bad things happen, good things can also happen at the very same time without us even knowing it. Life has a very mysterious way of working out for our greater good. I’m also grateful that Joe took the time to send that poor 17-year-old kid his books. He didn’t have to do that. At 17 years old, I didn’t fully comprehend the situation, but at 39 years old, I very much cherish them and that chance encounter on a cold January night so long ago.
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