Running Into Roger Baird

I grew up in Northern Utah, and during my teens, I lived in Ogden, a mid-sized city that was a railroad hub, as well as housing a major materiel airbase (Hill Field) and a Western Regional Center for the IRS. When I turned 16, I managed to scrape together $150 to buy my first car, a 1947 Dodge 4-door sedan. I needed the car, as I was a delivery service for my mother, who worked a big district in the middle of town as a Fuller Brush lady.

One evening I was driving up 25th Street towards home, on a wide two-lane road that allowed passing on the right if someone ahead of you was turning left. So there was a car with its left-hand turn signal blinking, but as I pulled even with it on its right side, lo and behold, it turned right, causing a collision between our two cars. Of course, we both stopped, and the driver of the other car jumped out and exclaimed, "Why don't you watch where you're going?"

I said, "Your left turn signal was blinking!"

He said, "That's impossible, I signaled a right turn with the lever!"

Just to prove his point, he flipped the lever to engage the right blinker, but much to his chagrin, the left blinker blinked instead!

It turned out that he had some mechanical work done on his car a week before the accident, and evidently the mechanic had inadvertently switched the turn signal wires, thus creating the hazard. The offending garage's insurance wound up covering the cost of damage to both cars as a result.

But the driver's name was Roger Baird. Years later, after I'd finished college and was living in Corona del Mar, CA, a neighbor asked me: "You lived in Utah? Did you ever run into a guy named Roger Baird?" What could I say?