Uncle John kills Grandpa Joe

Perhaps it's just one of me Uncle John's stories expanded beyond the normal apocalyptic standards of his tale telling. Perhaps it really happened as I will say. Perhaps it's full disclosure that I recognize that I do understand that safety is an issue with towing. Perhaps all of that. But I do know that towing with a tow rope can be hazardous.

The set of curves on Interstate 75 just south of Nine Mile Road in Ferndale, Michigan, is famous to Michiganders. After moving along at the breezy pace of 70 or even 55 miles per hour one suddenly has to slow down to negotiate two sharp turns, left and then right, right before you get to Detroit proper. It was at this juncture that Uncle John thought he had killed Grandpa Joe.

Zeke had broken down somewhere above this point driving one of the Joe Cosgriff Welding Machine Rentals flatbed trucks, while on his way home after a delivery. It was his bad luck that Grandpa Joe was the one to rescue him with a tow rope. Joe went out with a 1969 Chevy car to tow home a truck with a 14 foot bed. You know, standard procedure for us Cosgriffs, a lighter vehicle towing a heavier.

Well, Joe hooked up the truck to his car and off they went. All was fine until they reached the Nine Mile curve. Then, as Zeke saw it, Joe began trying to light a cigarette. In doing so, Joe couldn't find the lighter. So he took his eyes off the road, bent down to seek the lighter, an unignited johnny smoke dangling from his lips, and in so doing let the slack out of the tow rope.

You don't do that. You must keep the tow rope taut. All of us Detroit Cosgriffs, well experienced in the art of vehicle towing, know that. We also know the trailing vehicle has a much more difficult chore when it comes to stopping. The following vehicle requires the lead be alert to that fact.

But this was Joe. Anyone working with that man, Lord love him, needed to take on extra precaution for themselves.

So Joe lets the rope go slack for the sake of his Carlton. And Uncle John can't stop. Joe's Chevy drifts towards the shoulder. Zeke's truck drifts helplessly towards it as well, Uncle John pumping the brakes frantically, pointlessly. Joe's old car jumps slightly into the air on hitting the curb of the shoulder. Zeke's truck, heavier and therefore with greater kinetic energy, jumps the same curb only much higher. The expectant force drives the stake truck upwards. It lands squarely atop the old Chevy. Time stops.

I've killed him, me Uncle John thinks. I've killed my old man.

Years of seconds pass, Zeke considering the weight of what had happened. Eventually he raises up his head from the steering wheel where it rested. He must face the music. He must check on Joe.

Me Grandpa Joe meanwhile had already left his car, and was pacing in front of the Chevy smoking one cigarette after another, his nerves undoubtedly themselves frayed. Me Uncle John said that it was cartoonish. Joe was lighting one smoke after another and dragging it all in, the little red flame running up the entire length of each cigarette one draw at a time. Joe was okay. Zeke, well, it was a while longer returning to sanity.