We're Not Dead Yet

It was a hot day in Vietnam, and Dan Smithson's aircraft was shot down by a mortar. A mortar is a high-angle-of-fire weapon that sprays multiple forms of ammunition, sometimes explosive. It stopped counting at four hundred.

Everyone earned a purple heart that day, except Dan who survived without a scratch, nor a stain on his uniform. He was featured in a newspaper that told the story. During Dan's deployment, he served almost two tours (the war ended during his second), and recieve twenty-six air medals.

To put that into perspective for you, in order to recieve one air medal, someone has to complete twenty air combat missions. This means that he completed over five hundred combat missions.

Dan was shot down a total of five times, spent hours being exposed to agent orange, and refused to ever leave another marine behind. He was a hero to many soldiers and their families.

That happens to be my grandfather, and he is my hero, too, who also taught me how to drive.

I know what you're thinking: a marine taught you how to drive? Oh my gosh, that must have been terrible. Actually no, he was probably the best person to have ever taught me. Despite being a marine (because does one ever stop being a marine?) he is very patient and kind.

My grandfather never raised his voice at me even when I could have killed both of us or caused him to lose his vehicle. When I first got behind the wheel, I was so nervous. Obviously, everyone is nervous and scared the first time they get into a car. But I needed to learn because I was an adult and couldn't rely on other people for rides anymore.

I learned fairly quickly. In fact, every time we had a lesson he said it was like I was a different driver. However, there's this running joke that we've had since he taught me to drive and that's the story I'm going to tell.

It was a fairly nice day in Pensacola, Florida and we were on our way to my work. After I became comfortable enough on the road, my grandfather would let me drive to work every day for extra practice. Well, during that time I had a habit of not anticipating yellow lights.

It is important to anticipate green lights turning yellow because you don't want to risk running a red light or having to slam on your breaks suddenly.

I wasn't doing this. Something I had learned from people is that if the light turns yellow and you don't have enough time to stop, then just go through. This is because suddenly slamming on your breaks can cause more damage to the people in the car, and can also cause cars behind you to rear-end your vehicle.

So needless to say, I was following this philosophy. Every time we approached a light that turned yellow and I didn't have time to slow to a complete stop, I just went right through. And every time, I got a lecture about anticipating yellow lights. And also, every time I explained my reasoning for not slamming on my breaks.

Until this one fairly nice day in Pensacola, Florida. We were on a road called Nine Mile, which is one of those roads that can take you basically anywhere. All the major streets eventually run into this road.

Anyway, we were approaching a light when all of the sudden, it turned yellow. I didn't have time to slow down and stop, but I didn't want to make my grandfather mad either. I also didn't want another lecture, so I slammed on my breaks.

We flew forward with so much force that I think the truck lifted for a second. The car behind us narrowly avoided rear-ending us, and my heart was in my throat.

All I remember is my grandfather slowly turning toward me. There was a fierce fire in his eyes and a small grin on his face. It was then that I knew I messed up. It was also the moment I realized where my crazy look comes from whenever I get royally angry.

I felt the knowing glare pierce into me as I met his gaze, both hands on the wheel. I didn't know what to say or do, so the awkward introvert in me took over, and I said...

"We're not dead yet." And then we laughed.