coincidence

[kōˈinsədəns]

A remarkable concurrence of events or circumstances without apparent causal connection.

As you know, if you’ve read previous posts, I hold there is no coincidence.  Those expert in the mathematical sciences could apply numbers to formula to refute my contention, but I’ll stick to my guns.  As example I submit the following without aid of statistician.

I was living in Carrollton Georgia, which is situated some forty-five miles west of Atlanta.  I drove those miles, to and fro, each day as my work was centered in that great southern city.  I don’t know if land on highway’s banks has been developed since the years I resided there, but in my time, until on Atlanta’s near outskirts, it was largely rural.  One other note, though difficult to imagine, I owned no mobile phone.

As my repurposed telephone van was sans AC, my windows were down, and vents open to encourage the humid air to move—summer in that part of the country is formidable.  Another “non-feature” was radio of any kind—no Bluetooth, no iPod, no stereo—and though I was not graced with good pipes, I would sing the miles away.  By mile twenty I was through my limited library and beginning to repeat when the distinct odor of burning rubber filtered into cabin.  My hope was I would find the disagreeable scent unrelated to my aging vehicle.  If true, in short duration I would be breathing clean fresh air.  Unfortunately, my dash was suddenly aglow with amber light.  I pulled to shoulder to take inventory.  When fingers tripped latch and hood popped, smoke billowed.  The source was a belt.  Why had belt begun to burn was the question needing answer.

Given I lugged tools in van’s cargo-hold I was ready for a spell of roadside mechanicing.  First, I freed belt and then examined related components.  Bingo.  It was the alternator.  The pulley was frozen indicating bearing failure.

I stood back and surveyed landscape.  Farmland in each direction and scant traffic.  A hill to my left climbed toward bridge crossing roadway.  I decided to take higher ground.  When I arrived at crest I could see an old-time service station in the distance.  I thought it odd there would be an a such a business in this location given no town, no village, no other businesses were in eyesight.  I made way back to vehicle and removed the defective part.  My thought being they might be able to order the vintage alternator from an auto parts they did business with.  Slim chance, but my alternatives were limited.  I hiked the half mile, give or take, and arrived at station sweating from the heat.  No one was at counter when I opened door, though bell struck by door’s top announced my entry.  I could hear work underway in the adjacent bays.  A mechanic in gray duds emerged and stepped forward.  Placing part on surface between us I explained my predicament.  He examined it while wiping his hands with cotton rag pulled from rear pocket.  He had a pleasant manner and commented as to the component’s age.

As I started to ask if it might be possible to order said part he turned and looked at a shelf which stood behind.  He bent down and removed a dust covered weather beaten box.  “Been hang’n onto to this for a good while”, he said in an easygoing way, “figured it might come in handy.”

He opened lid to reveal the exact alternator I needed.  I told him I was amazed.  He smiled and refastened box top.  To my further surprise, the bill was less than I would pay at a typical auto parts store which was a blessing given green backs had recently been hard to come by.  I thanked him several times before parting ways.  Back then I would have labeled this coincidence or luck.

If I were character in Rod Serling’s Twilight Zone, I would return the next day and find no station, no laid-back mechanic, only grassy field.  This thought makes me smile and I genuinely believe it would Mr. Serling as well.  I choose these days to label it miracle, not to be placed in the same category as parting of sea, or restoring blind man’s sight, but miracle just the same.