The Idle American: On the Jericho Road

I wasn’t on the Jericho Road. I didn’t fall among thieves. I’ve never been robbed, but recently - stranded on a country road - I was befriend by two strangers who’ve quickly become friends. Their assistance mirrored the Bible’s account of the “Good Samaritan.”

   The road linking Jerusalem and Jericho was dangerous and craggy. Some in our county bear a remarkable resemblance. I, and thousands of other motorists, traverse them daily with strong grips on steering wheels.

   Maybe one road experience will spark a 21st century song similar to a favorite 20th century hymn: “On the Jericho Road.” You remember it: “On the Jericho Road, there’s room for just two, no more and no less, just Jesus and you.” My travail resulted from an ill-fated right turn at a country intersection of two single-lane roads.

   Motorists on roadways have reasons to be frustrated. Pessimism has set in, and instead of Good Samaritan accounts, we feel broadsided, trying to survive mayhem, much of it caused by political candidates’ vicious radio and TV ads. My Uncle Mort says that if 10% of what most candidates about their opponents is true, we ought to throw ‘em out, jailing some. We are enduring ads costing hundreds of millions of dollars. No wonder our teeth are gritting.

   In these days, would anyone - Democrat or Republican - lend a hand when someone falls among thieves, perhaps even left for dead if known to have different political leanings?

   We shudder, afraid of being scooped up in hand baskets headed south.

   On a  recent afternoon in a 20-minute standstill for road repairs I fell not among thieves, but did fail to negotiate a right turn at the intersection of narrow county roads. I almost made it, but my right rear tire encountered an object, rendered immediately useless. An important phone call I needed to take at home suddenly became unimportant.

   I’m aware of care that should be taken, particularly on narrow roads that lack shoulders. I groaned, realizing that 5 o’clock traffic might soon engulf me. I glanced at my smart phone, trying to think of someone who’d help me without spilling the beans to our daughters. I yearned for this slight accident to have on-the-QT status. Younger folks today keep such situations on the down low, or, if indifferent about news spreading, they churn open hands up and down while saying “six/seven.”

   Spotting a nearby home with a circular driveway, I crept in slowly, thinking of frequent doorway shootings. I theorized that if I had to vamoose on three tires, shifting to reverse would be pointless.

   I raised  my car hood and back hatch, opening all four doors to indicate distress. Then I walked toward the road, waving my cane. A couple of dozen cars passed; all drivers waved, but none stopped.

   I was saddened when two men in a truck with a trailer in tow waved vigorously, but simply didn’t slow down. I watched wistfully as they disappeared from view. A few minutes later, a 50-something year-old man and his mid-twenties co-worker returned. “We knew you were in trouble, but had to find a place to turn around,” said one of the Bethesda Water Supply employees.

   With their truck/trailer parked barely off the pavement and hazard lights flashing, I had an old west feel that the cavalry had arrived.

   They found what I couldn’t, a half-inflated donut spare tire. Jesse Fernandez and Johnny Miller put it on, suggesting that I drive at no more than 10 MPH to reach Lopez Brothers Tire Store, one mile ahead. They followed behind me, flashing. (The donut was still somewhat round, with perhaps enough air to inflate a half-dozen party balloons.)

   Wow! In the Metroplex with almost 9 million others, two modern-day Samaritans took time to help!

   Deeply appreciative, I stuck a $50 bill into Miller’s shirt pocket. It was small thanks for a giant favor. He wouldn’t take it, so I dropped it at his feet. When they drove away a few minutes later, I went inside, credit card in hand, to pay for a new tire.

    “There’s no charge,” Jose said. “The guys in the truck paid for it.”

   My eyes glistened when I unfolded the receipt; inside was the $50 bill! (Thanks to my road hazard guarantee, the next time I’m in Brownwood, my hometown, I’ll get a new spare tire, and I’ll list a slightly-used donut on eBay. The next morning, I dropped by Bethesda Water Supply Corporation to thank Don Baird, Operations Superintendent, Jesse and Johnny’s boss. I gave them copies of my books, warning that once put down, they’re hard to pick up.

   My heart warms upon thinking of my new friends. At church, I thanked Harold Moore, Bethesda Board President, praising both the Bethesda co-workers, as well as Jose (and his brother, Antonio) who now own the tire shop founded by their late father in 2009.

   Finally, this: Bethesda headquarters on I-35W are about a quarter-mile crow flight from our home. I salute the whole crew. Probably only a handful ever heard the Sons of the Pioneers sing, “Cool, Clear Water,” and/or recognize “On the Jericho Road.” May all of them seek living water.

   Once more, forgive me for citing personal experiences, but they’re the only kind I’ve had.

Dr. Newbury, retired educator, resides in the Metroplex, writing and speaking. His columns, both written and oral, are archived at speaker doc.com. Phone: 817-447-3872. Email: newbury@speakerdoc.com