One overloaded black pickup truck plus one fast-changing green light, equals one broken rearview mirror. Not a planned expense on my annual spring getaway to Massachusetts.

Returning to my daughter’s house from a visit with old friends, I missed my turn. Ever the explorer, I thought, “I might as well see where this road takes me.” B-I-G mistake.

A few miles later, I rounded a rotary, still in the suburbs south of Boston. But in short order, I was in heavy rush hour traffic. OK, Doofus, this is a mess of your own making. Whaddaya gonna do now?

Boston’s traffic was voted the worst in the country last year. Monday was no exception. As I crept forward trying to find directional signs, the only guide I really had was the late afternoon sun. I needed to drive west to pick up the northbound highway to my daughter’s house. HOW was I going to get there?

Good old Massachusetts lived up to its dismal reputation for road signs: Never tell them what road they are on and never let them know what is ahead – until they drive just past it. I was in deep doodoo.

I have known my way around southern Massachusetts most of my life, but things do change. I had no clue how to get where I needed to be. I was stopped at a red light in the middle of three lanes. As I searched the intersection for any hint of where I was, I saw a shadow approaching, close on my driver’s side. “What’s that guy doing over in my lane?” The black pickup closed in, his higher mirror just clearing my mirror, then instantly his wider cargo box smashed the mirror off my door! OMG!!

Furious, I yelled, “You stupid idiot! Are ya kidding me?” I was yelling to myself in the closed car. My other thoughts are unprintable and involved his parentage.

I quickly tried to see the business name printed on his passenger door, but he was a car length ahead and I only got his area code. I was hoping to catch sight of his license plate, but the light changed almost immediately. He sped off, and turned left. I was surrounded by traffic on all sides, entering a 5-way intersection with no signage. Fuggedaboudit. I glanced left and he was gone.

A few blocks later I pulled into a gas station to assess the damage. The mirror dangled beside the door. RATS.

A nice young man saw the white-haired lady checking her broken mirror and said, “May I help?” I asked if he knew a quick way to Route 3. He thought a minute and said, “I can take you there if you can follow me. It’s about 10 minutes with a lot of turns. Can you drive close behind me?” Absolutely I could. He did as promised, God bless him. At the last stop light, he pointed me to the correct on-ramp and headed home. I’d bake him cookies if I knew where he lived.

Driving the last 31 miles in four lanes of solid traffic took almost an hour. It was enough time for me to decide that driving back home without the mirror wasn’t possible.

Before 8 the next morning, my daughter and I drove to the Honda dealer. I was worried because I was leaving in a few days. They were helpful as they broke the news. Yes, we can get the part here tomorrow morning. Yes, we can fix it quickly. And yes, it will cost $959.13. For a mirror. I had to grip the counter.

I was having trouble getting an old picture out of my mind – the little chrome mirror attached to the driver door that you reached out and adjusted with your hand. That memory was probably from an early Pinto that graced my life.

As we drove away, my daughter and I discussed how everything is electronic today. That mirror is probably smarter than I am. It is fully adjustable remotely, lights up and beeps for passing traffic, and has a duo-directional camera inside.

I figured the replacement might cost as much as $500 – my deductible. No sense in involving insurance. That idea flew out the garage door just as my quote landed on the counter. Guess I’ll be calling the insurance people after all.

I gradually recovered. I was able to sit up and take nourishment by suppertime.

A few days later, back on the Mass Pike heading home, I was very grateful the mirror was where it needed to be. And from high in the Berkshire hills, not a black pickup in sight.

Marcy O’Brien can be reached at Moby.32@hotmail.com.