It was a summer day.  Warm.  Bright.  Perfect.  And then the sirens came.  I remember hearing them in the distance.  Approaching.  Coming closer.  Did something happen nearby?  Was there another bad accident on highway 18?  Did something happen in Covington? 

At that time, Kent-Kangley was a two-lane road.  It was lined on both sides by forests.  A few houses lined the road here and there either right on the shoulder of Kent-Kangley or perpendicular to the road and down a short dirt driveway.  Other than the grocery store and a few small businesses, Covington was very rural.  The sound of sirens always made me perk up. 

Somewhere around Walgreen’s or the complex by The Rock stood a few houses.  That’s where the sirens were headed.  For some reason, in my mind, the house was orange and white.  Maybe it was.  Maybe it wasn’t.  But that’s what I remember.  A few trees stood in front of it with a short sidewalk that ended at the shoulder along Kent-Kangley.  There might have been a small fence. 

My stomach churned and my heart beat faster as I heard the commotion of emergency vehicles converge in the area by the home.  I didn’t walk down there due to fear and being so young, but the flashing lights and the urgency of it all told me something was wrong.  Although the day was still light and warm, the sun set on my heart and mind as I wondered what terrible thing was going on.  A feeling of depression and sadness filled my soul and my wish to play waned. 

In an age before the Internet, instant news and the ability to find out in minutes what was going on, it wasn’t until a day or two later that I heard what had happened.  A young boy or teenager had left that home and crossed the street only to be hit by a car.  There were no crosswalks or lights.  To cross was a free-for-all.  You took your chances. 

The story I heard was that his body was thrown several feet through the air landing on the pavement nearby.  The mental images that formed in my mind and my imagination of the scene chilled me.  To hear those warnings from your parents from the time you can walk about not crossing a busy road and then seeing the consequences of their warnings is indescribable.  I don’t remember if the boy died, but something tells me he did.  For a long time, every time we drove past that house my mind conjured up images of the deadly scene.

To this day, when I read of stories of people crossing the street and getting hit and killed, I think of that boy and his family. Right here in Covington.  Years ago when the traffic was minimal.  A rural town.  Yet it happened.  I’ve been stupid enough to cross a road without using the crosswalk a few times, and my heart pounds when I think of how easily I could have gotten hit myself.  No matter how hard you look both ways, there’s always that car your mind and eyes didn’t see.  To imagine hearing the screeching of tires and the blare of a horn before that numbing crunch of your body against the grille is chilling.  May it never happen!