Explore unscripted accounts of survival and newfound perspective
San Bernardino, California
My first Mercedes-Benz was a 1965 190D — blue with red leather — and one night when I was 22, I decided to take my two-year-old daughter, Mary, for an ice cream. It was around 7 or 8 pm on a warm night during the summer of ’78, and we were stopped at a red light when a drunk driver crashed into us, head-on.
Once it was over, my first reaction was to look in the back and see if little Mary was ok; she was crying and upset, but thankfully that was it, and I was fine, too. When I finally got out, the difference between my car and the car that hit us was dramatic — the other car was destroyed, but my Mercedes looked like it could still be driven home.
I thank God for that old Mercedes — so strong, so safe, so good — and I’ve never driven anything but a Mercedes since.
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