After disaster strikes, finding a silver lining takes some doing

I actually got the kids to school in time, startling the evil Gatekeeper at the elementary school driveway so much he dropped his P.E. whistle so the equally evil Keymaster at the front door didn't know we were coming and poor Buzz almost ended up late anyway. The high schooler just got dropped off at McD's to pickup his paycheck, schedule, and an underclassman giggler who was just finishing her McLatte.

I knocked out a couple of articles, then headed off to Nashville to go to the Children's Advocacy banquet, where I was supposed to pick awards my coworkers Sadie Fowler and Brian Mosely and I had won for our articles about children in need. I was excited about the award because we didn't even know we'd been nominated. It's great getting press awards when you send your own stuff in, but there's something special about being recognized by people outside of your own industry.

I was also excited about getting to go to Nashville. I don't make many trips to the Big City and when I do, it usually involves taking my oldest son vehicles, money, or both. This time, I was hoping just to take him out to dinner after the banquet.

I hardly get into downtown at all. I love downtown Nashville -- it makes me feel like a single twenty-something again -- all those nightspots to explore, all those unique shopping experiences. When I really was a single twenty-something, the types of store you found on Second and Lower Broad were only unique to a naive twenty-something who thought leather and leashes were only for dogs ...

Now, it has a lot of that same electric energy that Manhattan does, only on a much smaller, much more polite scale. I was in Manhattan in 1984 for a week on my own and it was the most exciting, exhausting and exhilarating week of my life. (Sorry, sweetheart, as much as I loved our honeymoon, they don't have Broadway in Sandestin.)

I could imagine myself living there, caught up in that staccato beat of life, the constant energy, the vibrant NOW of being young, urban and unbearably chic and cool. And I was! I wore suede boots, and long, swirling skirt, a bat-cape coat and a beret. I was so cool, tourists were stopping me to ask for directions -- and I could tell them how to get there. The Greek boys in the diner swooned over my accent and gave me baklava just for saying "Y'all" and a suave sophisticated businessman tried to pick me up (unsuccessfully) as we ambled in carefully cultured blasé ennui through an art exhibit at the World Trade Center. (Of course, I also saw him get arrested a few hours later for soliciting, so maybe I was more naive than cool ...)

I was looking forward to walking around the Nashville downtown area for a while after the awards were given out and recharging my secret urban self until the next trip to the Big City.

The fates had other plans.

Just outside Hickory Hollow, something flew off of the tire of the big truck in front of my van and straight at my right front tire. Is there anything scarier than hearing Ka-POW-wack--wack-wack-wack when you're going 70 miles an hour in four lanes of traffic?

Then, the noise went away and I relaxed -- no noise meant no problem, right?

And then I heard thubba-thubba-thubba. Bad noise. Bad problem. My front tire was shredded on the interstate and I had no cell phone and no credit card. Since the tire was beyond redemption anyway, I limped my poor van off the interstate to a convenience store. It started to rain. The only phone was a pay phone that was broken. Literally -- the receiver was broken in two, the hearing and the speaking ends were connected by two fragile wires so I had to hold each piece in a different hand as I yelled through the bad reception to the party on the other end. With lightning going on around me.

At one point, I was hoping it would strike ...

I waited two hours for the tow truck to show up. The same towing company that told me 20 minutes. Of course, they also told me they took checks, and that wasn't true, either.

So there I was, already late for the banquet, in my brand new outfit bought just for that purpose, changing my own tire in a very busy convenience store parking lot with men of all ages and backgrounds driving by. Not stopping, Not helping. Occasionally laughing.

Now Tawanda can change tires -- she just doesn't like to, especially when it means she's going to ruin a very nice, new outfit. She and I did very well until the point came when I had to pick the spare up and place it on the bolts. It would not go. I kicked, I cried, I fussed, I yelled, I used words that would probably have shocked everyone at the Kids Count banquet enough they wouldn't have given me the award anyway.

But I did it, and as I leaned against the van, glaring at the tire, wobbling on its precarious five-bolt perch, I heard a voice behind me.

"Ma'am, could you use some help?"

These two young men, in their late 20s or early 30s, may have been too late to save my outfit or my award reception, but they did at least save some shred of hope for mankind. They not only got the spare bolted on and aired up properly, they offered gunk to clean my hands (Didn't work on the clothing, though.)

"There are still gentlemen in the world," I thought as I blotted the tear tracks away. "Some men will help a damsel in distress."

"We got mamas, too, you know," they said.

So much for "damsel."

By the time I got downtown and had to deal with traffic and tourists, the event was over. By the time I headed home, I found myself in commuter traffic, driving 5-mph if I was lucky. By the time I got home, Tawanda, my migraine and I burrowed under the covers and gave up the idea of ever enjoying city life ever again.

I remembered what my two knights in shining coveralls said when they stopped to help me out.

"We're from the country," one said. "That's what we do."

That beats free baklava any day.