At seventeen, my sister convinced our mom that her social life depended on attending a party that Saturday evening. Mom agreed to drive despite misgivings about being able to see at night. After dropping Mary at the party, bright lights from oncoming traffic were so disorienting that she mistakenly entered northern New Jersey's infamous Route 22. In the late 1950s, autos and trucks sped with Kamikaze disregard along this old state highway whizzing past towns named Union, Scotch Plains, Springfield, and Mountainside. Upon accessing the highway, mom steered onto a wide concrete divider that separated two narrow eastbound lanes from westbound traffic. The divider on which she drove rose and narrowed ever so slowly. Mom crept forward while traffic whooshed below. Finally, her car's front wheels slipped off the pavement and the car clunked to a stop. Its undercarriage rested firmly on the divider. Neither the car nor mom would become disengaged from their predicament for several hours while emergency workers figured out how to undertake a rescue. When she finally arrived home with her car dangling from the end of a tow truck, she told me her story alternating between laughter and tears.