by Clyde Whitaker

This story begins about 50 years ago, on a cold, winter night in January 1975, on the ice-covered Michigan 106 road leading into Stockbridge from Munith.

But first, let’s go back to September 1974. I had a great job at Libra Industries in Jackson and was making some decent money, enough so that I felt I could sustain a car payment. So, I went to Les Stafford in Jackson and purchased my first new car—a brand-new 1974 Pontiac Ventura coupe from Bill Gaddy. It was burgundy red, with a pinstripe, and black cloth interior. It was a beautiful car that closely resembled the Chevrolet Nova in body style.

Fast forward to January 1975. I was driving my new car to go and pick up my sister, Juanita, who was working at the Hans Sausage House in Stockbridge. Just outside of Stockbridge and before the Krummrey Farm, heading north on M-106, the road on both sides was nothing but a sheet of ice. I was traveling about 40 mph, listening to my radio, loving my car, not expecting what was about to happen. Right before the Don Krummrey house, I noticed lights coming up over the crest of the hill, heading south. All of a sudden the lights went away, and my headlights shined on a car coming over the crest of the hill … sideways … toward me!

I tried turning the wheel, but I could not get the car to turn, it just slid, so I braced for impact. I was not wearing a seat belt. Terror-stricken, I put both of my hands on the wheel, bent over to the right, and said “Oh, Tom,” because I recognized the car of my friend Tom Dickinson. When we collided, it sounded like a bomb went off. I flew up into the left corner of my windshield, leaving a large crater where my head struck. At the instant my head met the windshield, it seemed like a million micro pieces of my life flashed before my eyes, everything it seemed that happened in my life was revealed—people, places, everything.

As we separated from the crash, my car slid across the road into the ditch on the west side of the road, while Tom was thrown through his passenger window, with his car in the ditch on the east side of the road. Still conscious, I tried to open my door. It was jammed. I leaned to the right and kicked the door about three times before it finally opened. Getting out, I tried to make sense of what just happened. I called out for Tom, but never received an answer. At that point I realized I couldn’t see out of my left eye! Scared out of my mind, I thought my left eye was gone. Reluctantly, I put my left index finger up to my eye, felt around it, then realized it was blood flowing down from my cut-up forehead that was filling my eye with blood. 

Relieved that I still had my eye and I didn’t seem seriously hurt, I walked up to the road, my face covered in blood, looking, I’m sure, like a creature from a zombie movie! Another car then stopped. It was Mr. Novak, the restaurant owner from town. He rolled his window down, took one look at me, and said “I’ll call the ambulance” as he sped off.

After that I was kind of groggy, but people were stopping and the ambulance came, taking Tom and me to the hospital. My mom and dad heard about the wreck and followed the ambulance to the hospital. I waved to them through the back window of the ambulance so they would know I was OK and not worry too much. Luckily, Tom was not hurt too badly, but he did sustain a broken arm, effectively knocking him out of his senior year basketball season. I felt bad for him and the team. I ended up with cuts and bruises, and about 15 stiches in my forehead.

That night in January 1975—50 years ago—could have turned out a whole lot differently, but I’m thankful for my sake and for Tom’s that it didn’t. 

Clyde Whitaker is a 1973 Stockbridge graduate. He and his wife, Mary, raised four children in Stockbridge, and they still reside in the Stockbridge area. Photos provided by Clyde Whitaker.