God's Angels Jim and Joe

"I'm an idiot."

That's what I'm thinking. I wish, as an adult, I wouldn't feel like a stupid kid so much. But I do.

I'm lost in these thoughts, so I don't hear Jim say:

"I tell you what you oughta keep at all times. That kitty litter. Bit of that stuff under your tires spread it out on a hill, cover up the ice, it'll get you outta anything," Jim is chewing on a toothpick and talking with his hands. He looks in his mid-50s and talks with an accent that ends his words sharply, but his voice is so deep and friendly, you don't mind.

I've just met him because my 4Runner is stuck in a ditch outside of his house. I thought the roads had thawed enough to drive on; Lord knows I've got a 4Runner; it should be able to handle this. And it did work until I tried to turn around in Jim's driveway and found the ditch.

About that time, Joe rolls up in an F-350. He has a suede cowboy hat, wild salt and pepper hair underneath, and a big mustache. His wife is in the front seat, holding a grocery bag with Cheetos.

"Y'all need hep?" Out here in the country, it's "hep" not "help."

"Would you mind?" I say, more twangy than intended. I'm half-city, half-country, so I can go both ways depending on who I'm talking to.

"Yep. I live just off Roberts. I'll go get some tow straps, and we'll pull you out." He drives off.

"Where are you from?" I ask Jim, killing the time.

"West Virginia, my son-in-law is a pastor, so we moved down here a couple a months ago."

"Oh, wow. Do you ever miss West Virginia?"

He turns to me, his eyes bulging like he’s about to let me in a secret "I'd be lying if I said I didn't. But …" he trails off, looking at the ground and for the words. "My son died of brain cancer. He was 39." He says it matter of factly, the way mountain folk talk about death.

"Man, I'm so sorry."

"Yep, so we took care of him during his treatments. Moved to Charleston for a bit, and then he passed about a year ago. So we just decided to come down here."

Jim is from Boone County, West Virginia. He spent 18 years working for the Department of Highways and had 40 acres up in the hills. So he knows how to handle icy roads (i.e., the kitty litter trick). He talks about this situation like he's helping a three-year-old with a scraped knee. "We'll get you out. Just need some clear pavement. We'll get you out."

Joe rolls back up in his truck and climbs under my 4Runner to tie up the strap as he says, "Seems like it'll be easier to pull you out up front."

"I was fixin' to say the same thing," says Jim.

I jump in the front seat and throw it in neutral as Joe starts to pull.

"Jim, just tell me what to do," I say with more shake than I'm proud of.

"Yep, yep, yep. Come on, come on," signals Jim. "Woah. WOAH. WOAH!" Jim shouts as Joe pulls me clean front first into the ditch. My rear right tire is now hanging in the air. I get out of the car like it was sinking in water because I thought it was about to roll over on me.

Joe rockets out of his truck, losing his hat. "I never thought it'd pull you that ways. Daggum. You wet your britches?" he says, looking at me.

"Just about," I say, shaking a little.

"Seems we'll have to pull the other way," says Jim, still laboring on his toothpick and warming his hands in the pockets of his Cabela’s sweatshirt. His demeanor hasn't changed. He still speaks like his grandson came in needing a hug and a band-aid.

I don't have a trailer hitch, but Jim does. So he runs and grabs it, hooks it into my car, Joe straps it up, and I get in after he pulls it onto a flat surface.

“Will this thing roll over on me?” I ask.

“It shouldn’t,” Jim says.

"What do I do?”

The strap goes taught as Joe diesels up the road.

"Cut it to the right, to the right, there you go, there you go," Jim says. "Now, straighten her out, good, good. Look at that!"

We get back onto the cleared road. I shake both their hands, my own trembling a bit. “God bless ya,” says Jim.

When I came home and told my wife the story, she said, "You're an idiot." She says it a lot nicer than I say it to myself.

And I might be. But if I weren't, I'd never meet angels like Jim and Joe. Sometimes we all need a little hep.