A  WEDDING  AND  A  TRAGEDY  

 
This  past  Saturday  my  handsome  21  year-­‐old  son,  Christopher,  was  married  to  his  
beautiful  bride,  Aspen.    The  ceremony  was  held  at  Bianchi  Orchards  in  a  charming  
Christmas  ornamented  barn  near  the  rural  town  of  Los  Molinos,  which  sits  about  25  
miles  north  of  downtown  Chico.  Walnuts  and  wine  are  grown  in  the  orchards  and  
the  atmosphere  is  like  a  hallmark  card—down-­‐home  and  cozy  even  on  a  chilly  
December  day.  Family  members  helped  decorate  the  barn  and  guests  were  greeted  
with  the  sound  of  vintage  Christmas  music,  hot  chocolate,  homemade  Chili  and  an  
array  of  delicious  desserts.  Vows  were  exchanged,  the  wedding  photos  were  taken,  
and  the  remainder  of  the  afternoon  was  spent  simply  enjoying  the  company  of  our  
closest  and  dearest  family  and  friends.  All  in  all,  it  was  a  cherished  day  to  remember.  
 
The  wedding  was  scheduled  to  start  at  noon  but  was  delayed  a  bit  as  a  few  guests  
were  still  finding  their  way  to  the  venue.  And  then  it  happened.    A  Honda  sedan  
collided  with  a  Freightliner  semi-­‐truck  on  highway  99  directly  in  front  of  the  
orchard  and  the  wedding  party,  its  startled  guests  still  congregating  outside.  Just  
prior  to  the  collision,  one  of  the  guests  had  slowed  to  make  a  left  hand  turn  into  the  
driveway.  The  two  cars  directly  behind  veered  around  and  continued  down  the  
highway.  The  Honda  sedan  however,  did  not  appreciate  the  somewhat  sudden  stop.    
 
As  the  driver  passed,  he  rolled  down  his  window  and  shouted  a  vulgarity-­‐laced  
tirade  in  the  direction  of  the  wedding  guest  driver  who  by  now  was  half  way  down  
the  driveway.  We  watched  as  the  driver  continued  on  in  the  northbound  lane,  our  
field  of  vision  now  obscured  by  the  Bianchi  family  house.  Within  just  a  few  seconds  
however  we  heard  the  blunt  explosion  of  impact,  the  sound  of  brakes  grinding,  of  
wheels  skidding  in  a  slow  and  awful  groan,  the  screams  and  gasps  drowned  by  the  
mash  of  metal  and  glass  churning  as  the  semi  propelled  the  Honda  backwards  until  
it  was  directly  across  the  highway  from  us.  The  entire  incident  was  surreal,  like  a  
slow  motion  scene  from  a  movie,  the  vehicles  locked  in  a  torrid  tango  as  they  
barreled  across  the  highway.  Finally,  the  semi  jack-­‐knifed  to  a  violent  halt,  its  53-­‐
foot  box  trailer  protruding  onto  the  north  bound  lane  as  the  Honda  spit  free  before  
resting  a  few  feet  away.    
 
We  stood  still  for  a  paralyzed  moment,  our  collective  minds  trying  to  process  the  
tragedy  we  had  just  witnessed.    Derrick  Castro,  a  Chico  periodontitis  and  retired  
Naval  Officer  immediately  called  911.  My  son-­‐in-­‐law  Tim  Rickman,  a  US  Naval  
Corpsman  trained  in  medical  emergencies  started  down  the  driveway,  his  cadence  
quickening  with  each  step.  I  along  with  other  wedding  guests  followed  and  by  the  
time  we  had  reached  highway  99,  traffic  in  both  the  north  and  south  bounds  lanes  
had  crawled  to  a  stop.    I  jogged  across  the  highway  now  littered  with  shattered  
glass,  the  smell  of  leaking  gasoline  and  radiator  fluid  permeating  the  air.    Stepping  
over  a  dislodged  front  bumper,  I  could  now  see  the  driver  of  the  semi-­‐truck  hopping  
out  of  his  cab.  In  obvious  distress,  he  collapsed  to  the  ground,  covering  his  face  with  
both  hands  in  a  silent  moment  of  anguish.    
Finally  he  stood,  shaking  his  head  as  if  warding  off  the  nightmare.  I  approached  and  
asked  him  if  he  was  okay.  He  nodded  yes.  I  patted  him  on  the  back  and  told  him  it  
wasn’t  his  fault.  He  stared  over  at  the  Honda.  “I  was  just  doing  my  job.  And  without  
warning  the  car  veered  into  my  lane.  There  was  nothing  I  could  do…”  He  turned  and  
walked  to  a  lone  space  trying  to  regain  whatever  composure  he  could  muster.    
 
I  turned  my  attention  to  the  Honda  and  it  was  then  that  I  realized  the  full  extent  of  
the  accident.  The  car  was  mangled  beyond  recognition,  its  car  doors  crumpled,  its  
front  end  compressed  like  a  crushed  soda  can.  Due  to  the  severity  of  the  crash,  the  
engine  block  had  pushed  through  the  dashboard,  the  two  front  seat  passengers  
pinned  in  grotesque  contortion,  their  bodies  bent  forward  in  excruciating  45-­‐degree  
angles.  The  front  air  bags  were  not  visible  but  the  side  airbags  had  deployed,  
covering  the  back  seat  windows.  Tim  had  removed  his  dress  shirt  and  kneeled  next  
to  the  busted  driver’s  side  window.  The  driver,  a  young  male,  was  alive  and  
conscious  but  appeared  critically  injured.  Tim  reached  inside  and  pressed  the  shirt  
against  his  bleeding  neck  wound  while  supporting  the  young  man’s  upper  spine  as  
he  simultaneously  engaged  in  conversation—anything  to  keep  the  driver  alert.  
 
I  wandered  over,  ill  equipped  to  do  anything  other  than  offer  words  of  comfort.  I  
knelt  next  to  Tim  and  could  now  see  the  driver’s  bloody  head  resting  against  the  
steering  wheel,  his  glasses  cockeyed  but  still  attached.  “Hey  Brayden.  This  is  my  
father-­‐in-­‐law,  Phil,”  Tim  announced.    Brayden  turned  his  eyes  toward  me,  a  flicker  of  
acknowledgement.  I  tried  to  smile.  “It's  going  to  be  okay,  Brayden.  You’re  going  to  
make  it,  buddy.  Just  stay  awake.”  He  tried  to  say  something  but  couldn’t.  His  eyes  
slowly  drifted  away.  I  could  see  another  Samaritan  helping  the  woman  in  the  
passenger  seat,  blood  obscuring  her  face,  her  painful  moans  piercing  the  dead  
silence.  I  stood  and  walked  back  to  the  small  crowd  of  people  who  had  now  
gathered.    All  we  could  do  was  watch  and  wait  for  the  emergency  responders.    
 
After  a  few  minutes,  a  woman  wandered  over  to  the  sedan  and  peeked  though  a  
crack  in  the  back  window.    “Oh  my  god.  There  are  children  back  here,”  she  gasped.  
The  woman  stepped  back,  her  hand  covering  her  mouth  in  utter  horror.  I  could  hear  
more  gasps  from  the  crowd  and  my  heart  immediately  sank  because  I  had  not  heard  
any  noises  from  the  backseat.  A  few  of  us  stepped  toward  the  car.  Someone  tried  the  
door  but  it  was  jammed  shut.  A  few  panicked  moments  passed,  people  scrambling  to  
find  something  to  break  the  windows.  Finally,  a  fire  extinguisher  was  presented  as  
Dr.  Castro  promptly  bashed  the  backside  windows,  the  glass  shattering  against  the  
airbag  curtain.  He  reached  inside  and  was  able  to  unlock  and  pull  the  door  open.  I  
wanted  to  avert  my  eyes  but  I  couldn’t.    
 
Peering  inside  I  could  see  two  children,  one  male  and  one  female,  lying  motionless  
across  the  backseat.  Before  I  could  react,  an  unidentified  man  reached  into  the  sedan  
and  carefully  removed  the  boy,  gently  setting  his  body  onto  the  ground.  Then  with  
equal  care,  another  man  pulled  the  girl  from  her  seatbelt  and  set  her  body  a  few  feet  
from  the  boy.  I  could  see  that  both  children  were  unresponsive,  lips  blue,  their  pale  
faces  in  a  state  of  repose.  There  was  no  blood  evident,  not  a  scratch  on  them.  They  
simply  looked  like  they  were  sleeping.  Dr.  Castro  and  another  medically  trained  
observer  began  CPR  on  the  little  girl.  I  watched  for  a  few  moments,  helpless,  my  eyes  
locked  on  her  small,  limp  body.  I  knelt  down  and  gently  stroked  her  cheek  with  the  
back  of  my  hand  as  Dr.  Castro  continued  the  compressions.  I  told  her  how  pretty  she  
was  and  that  all  would  be  okay.  But  I  knew  I  was  lying.  I  knew  in  my  heart  that  she  
was  already  gone.  I  then  stood  and  walked  to  the  little  boy  and  though  not  officially  
declared,  I  knew  that  his  life  too  had  expired.  I  walked  a  few  steps  and  knelt  again,  
whispering  a  prayer,  the  words  tumbling  out  in  awkward  fits  and  starts.  All  I  wanted  
was  for  those  sweet  and  pure  and  innocent  children  to  know  that  they  were  loved  
and  cared  for  in  their  final  moments  here  on  earth.    I  then  stood  and,  staring  out  at  
an  open  field,  cried  harder  than  I  had  in  a  long  time.  
 
Soon  the  entire  area  was  awash  with  law  enforcement,  fire  trucks,  and  emergency  
responders.  A  CHP  officer  approached  and  asked  where  we  had  come  from.  We  
explained  we  were  attending  a  wedding  across  the  street.  He  thanked  us  for  our  
efforts  and  politely  asked  us  to  clear  the  area  to  make  room  for  the  EMT’s  and  
extraction  equipment  that  would  be  required  to  cut  through  the  car’s  metal  exterior.  
Our  impromptu  rescue  team  gradually  and  collectively  walked  across  highway  99  
and  back  down  the  Bianchi  driveway.  It  seemed  like  we  had  been  gone  forever.  
 
Due  to  the  accident,  the  wedding  had  been  delayed  for  almost  two  hours  and  during  
that  time  there  was  discussion  that  the  ceremony  be  cancelled  to  a  later  date.  But  
after  deep  consideration  by  the  bride  and  groom  it  was  decided  that  the  wedding  
would  proceed  as  scheduled.    By  then,  we  had  regrouped  outside.  The  presiding  
Bishop,  Curt  Keables,  held  a  moment  of  silence  for  the  accident  victims,  then  
conducted  a  simple,  beautiful  and  heartfelt  marriage  ceremony  between  
Christopher  Kenneth  Midling  and  Aspen  Kara-­‐Marie  Conner.  The  warm  and  intimate  
reception  followed  inside  the  barn,  the  guests  eating  and  mingling  in  joyful  but  
reserved  countenance.    
 
Life  is  both  fleeting  and  fragile  and  can  be  extinguished  in  the  blink  of  an  eye.  I  know  
that  those  who  witnessed  the  accident  and  saw  first  hand  its  devastation  are  deeply  
moved.  We  are  still  grappling  with  the  juxtaposition  of  a  wedding  and  a  tragedy.  For  
me  the  images  are  indelibly  etched  into  my  memory  and  it  will  be  a  while  before  I  
am  fully  back  to  normal.  I  cannot  extricate  the  tragic  and  poignant  faces  of  those  
children  from  my  mind  and  oddly  enough,  I  don’t  want  to.  I  never  knew  them  in  life  
but  for  a  few  moments  on  December  21st,  I  loved  them  as  my  own.    
 
One  of  the  great  ironies  of  life  is  that  it  is  often  tragedy  that  brings  us  closer  
together,  the  bonds  forged  in  chaos  and  tumult  when  worlds  are  turned  upside  
down.  I  do  not  remember  the  names  of  those  good  Samaritans  who  abandoned  their  
cars  in  the  middle  of  the  highway  to  help  nor  remember  the  faces  attached  to  those  
helping  hands  that  lifted  the  children  from  the  backseat  of  that  Honda  sedan.  What  I  
do  remember  however  are  those  compassionate  spirits  present  on  that  afternoon,  
their  Herculean  efforts  restoring  my  faith  in  humanity.    There  are  many  good  people  
in  this  world,  more  good  than  bad.  And  on  that  day,  I  witnessed  the  some  of  the  best.    
I  find  some  solace  in  the  fact  that  I  don’t  think  the  children  suffered,  the  blunt  force  
trauma  immediate,  the  end  swift  and  painless.  And  yet  I  feel  conflicted,  even  angry,  
at  the  cause  of  a  preventable  and  unnecessary  accident.    At  the  impatience,  
rudeness,  and  recklessness  of  a  young  man  whose  road  rage  veered  into  oncoming  
traffic,  costing  him  his  life  and  the  lives  of  two  innocent  children.  My  confliction  and  
anger  are  irrelevant  however  for  it  is  not  up  to  me  to  affix  blame.  I  am  not  God,  
judge,  or  jury.  In  the  end  all  I  can  do  is  pray  for  the  victims  and  their  families.    
 
*******************************************  
 
Dusk  had  now  descended  into  night  as  I  loaded  my  car  and  said  my  goodbyes.  I  
pulled  down  the  driveway  and  as  I  approached  highway  99  I  slowed  to  a  stop.  I  sat  
still  for  a  long  moment,  my  car  idling  as  I  contemplated  the  day.  Two  life-­‐changing  
events  occurred  on  opposite  sides  of  a  highway,  the  asphalt  chasm  separating  joy  
from  sorrow,  life  from  death.  I  glanced  in  the  rear  view  mirror  and  could  see  the  
illuminating  glow  of  the  barn  where  a  wedding  had  taken  place.  I  then  stared  hard  
across  the  highway  one  last  time,  the  remnants  of  a  tragic  and  deadly  collision  now  
removed  and  scrubbed  so  clean  that  one  might  wonder  if  an  accident  had  occurred  
at  all.  And  then  I  buckled  my  seatbelt,  turned  right,  and  headed  home.  
 
Update:  Brayden  Frazier,  the  driver  of  the  Honda  sedan,  succumbed  to  his  injuries  
Sunday  evening.    He  was  18  years  old.  Eva  Davies,  27,  Brayden’s  girlfriend  and  the  
mother  of  the  two  deceased  children  is,  as  of  the  writing,  still  at  Chico’s  Enloe  
Medical  Center  and  in  serious  condition.