Earlier this week, one of my worst fears came to pass.  Our youngest daughter was involved in a traffic accident that sent one driver to the hospital and left our van looking like the piece of junk it really is.  Fortunately, none of the injuries were serious.  I can’t say the same for our van.

Another stroke of good luck came when the officer told me the other driver was at fault.  They have this thing here in Ohio about running red lights, especially when you drive around two stopped cars to do it.   At nearly fifty miles per hour, my daughter hit the other car at the perfect angle to minimize damage and injury. Yes, we’re going to church this week.

First of all, I need to offer thanks for nobody being seriously hurt.  And for the one person who put his own life on hold long enough to make sure everybody was okay.  At least a half-dozen people witnessed the accident, but everyone else had important things to do.  I’ll offer thanks for them as well.

Then I’ll pray for my own sanity as we begin the clean-up phase, better known as "claims processing."   The government mandates all kinds of safety features to minimize injury in an accident, then requires us to buy insurance.  That’s like filling fire extinguishers with gas.

I called my own insurance company that morning to file a report.  Of course, I got a computerized greeting:

"Thank you for calling State Barn.  To report an accident in which you were at fault, hang up and call our Premium Quadrupling Center; if the other driver was at fault, hang up and call his insurance company.  For all other calls, remain on the line until we hang up."

So I called the other guy's insurance company.  Again, I had to listen to the requisite recording.

"Hi, this is Gus.  I'm sitting right beside my phone, twiddling my thumbs.  Leave your name after the beep and I’ll decide if I want to talk to you.  Leave your number if you must, but don't hold your breath.  Beep."

The first hurdle is getting them to accept liability.  That’s a word insurance companies use a lot.  It comes from the Latin word meaning "ability to lie."

First comes the interrogation.   The object here is to trick you into saying something that can be turned into an admission of guilt.  As I put my daughter on the phone, I had no fear.  In eighteen years, she’s never accepted blame for anything.

Later that evening, they called and offered a rental car - a very small rental car.  Houston, we have a problem.  I politely explained that our family consists of four relatively large adults and a child in a car seat.  The lady politely replied that it isn’t her fault we’re fat.

So I switched to another tactic.   I expressed my desire to keep their cost to a minimum, but offered to flip to the back cover of the Yellow Pages and call the attorney whose annual income allows for the highest advertising budget.  We got a minivan.

Next comes the damage estimate.   This is where lie-ability takes on a whole new meaning.  I can find damage on the hubcaps. Somebody else’s.  And that stain on the passenger seat wasn’t there before.  They must have knocked some dirt loose from the floor.

Of course, the appraiser isn’t interested.  The door is crumpled, but he’s focused on a spot of rust.   "Looks to me like that door was scratched already.  We’ll have to deduct that from the estimate."

Finally he starts adding up the damage, and decides it’s not worth fixing.  He stopped at $7800.  I stopped long before then.  I know how it ran before the accident.

So the last step is figuring out how much that piece … I mean, how much that wonderful example of automotive excellence is worth.   "It’s worth at least ten thousand," I tell him.  He smiles and says, "Try selling it."

Through it all, I have to remind myself what’s important.  Nobody was seriously hurt.  And now that I’ve almost made it past the insurance companies without injury, I have only one hurdle to clear.  Any bets on how I'll make out with the new car dealer?