Are you as amazed as I about how many times we narrowly miss getting killed or miss getting dead in some way or another? Well, I am, too, and lately, I’ve been giving this a lot of thought. Really, I have!

But mostly, I’ve been thinking about the reasons for this happening. I mean, how come we escape that Reaper of the Great Grimness as often as we do throughout our lives? (Well, OK, all except for that one time.) Is it because of some big mystical plan thing? I mean if we dodge the bullet, does that necessarily mean it zoomed past our very scalps because we’re supposed to hang around in order to accomplish something else? Something important? Meaningful? Beneficial to all humankind? Or just something?

Well, I don’t know about all that, but I do know I’ve had my share of those incidents and I’m always left wondering first, what on Earth happened that I didn’t get killed off, secondly, why did it ever happen, and thirdly, how come I wiggled out of it? And how come I didn’t even know I was wiggling? And anyway, was it I who did the wiggling? Or was I being wiggled? Or was some mysterious force doing the wiggling for me? OK. I know. That’s seventhly. But it really is a mystery.

I’ve had many brushes with death, but I remember my first. I was 4 years old and up on the St. Lawrence River visiting a relative’s farm and was out on a dock leaning way out over the water because my small, tin, yellow-and-red toy boat was floating away from me. Splash, over I went, and I recall lying on the bottom of that river, rolling around and looking up at the sky through the clear water. Finally, right through that water, I saw a guy who worked on the farm lean over, look at me, reach down and haul me out. His name was Grant and he was very annoyed at the interruption of his work flow. He took off my pink bathrobe, wrung it out and made me put it back on. Felt awful. When I noticed my black patent leather Mary Janes were soaked and I complained, Grant told me I was not a very grateful little girl and hauled me off (rather roughly, as I recall) to a relative.

I want to thank you, Grant, lo these 82 years later. Thanks very much. Because of you, I’ve had a lot of really great years, experiences and family stuff, but I just can’t figure why on Earth was I wandering around on a dock on the St. Lawrence River in a pink bathrobe and Mary Janes. Well, I still haven’t learned to dress particularly well, but by now it’s just too late to get that all sorted out. But thanks again, Grant. Really. Wherever you are.

And then there was that morning when I was walking to school and I began to cross a street behind a big, tall, blue bread truck. Now, I’m not so sure it really was a bread truck, but I’d like to think it was because I really like bread. And yes, I’m old enough to have seen bread trucks cruising neighborhoods.

So anyway, I crossed behind it and I heard a man across the street yelling really loudly and I remember wondering why in the world he was making such a scene, waving his arms about the way he was and bellowing. I mean, honestly. Some people.

And then bam! I felt this huge, hard heavy thing smash into my side, and yes, it was that blue bread truck I was walking behind to cross the street. He was backing into me, never saw me, and it really was my fault. Back then, trucks didn’t have those incessant beeping sounds they have today when they back up, which are really a very good thing indeed if you’re behind a truck and the driver has no clue,but really maddening if you live near a construction site.

Well, anyway, the guy in the bread truck took off and the man across the street stared at me and when he saw I was upright and had dropped nary a book, he sauntered off and I went on my way to school, battered but unbloodied.

So, thanks, man across the street. Because of you, I’m sitting here typing this column and enjoying a very nice life. But still, oh, I don’t know, how come I didn’t drown in the St. Lawrence River? Or get flattened by the big, tall, blue bread truck? How come Grant and across-the-street man were where they were, when I was where I shouldn’t have been? I sure don’t know, but if I was spared for some mysterious reason, well, I’m still here and waiting to do whatever it is I’m supposed to do, wondering about my reason for being. So, exactly what is that? And when will I find out?

LC Van Savage is a Brunswick writer.