I think of my new book as unique since it is the only writing project for which I spilled blood.

It happened in western Maryland on a cold Sunday in December 2019. I was on a scouting trip for what would become Condemned for Love in Old Virginia, my new book. I had visited the Clear Spring Historical Association, the land that the Abraham Shupp family farmed and Dam No. 5 on the Potomac River. My final stop was in downtown Williamsport to see the site of the Taylor Hotel.

All of these sites were key to the Arthur Jordan/Elvira Corder story. I wanted to take pictures and, I hoped, gather information for the book. By late afternoon, however, I was tired and cold, and the light was fading. I was ready to go home.

I was standing at the corner of West Potomac and Conococheague streets in Williamsport to photograph the hotel site, now a vacant lot. When the traffic light turned green, I crossed in the crosswalk, headed for my car. In the middle of the street, I looked down to see a car turning in front of me.

“This is the closest I’ve ever been to a moving car,” I remember thinking.

In less time than it took to complete that thought, the car struck me. The right side of what looked like an old Buick or Oldsmobile hit me in the left leg, and the rear tire ran over my foot. The collision spun me around and knocked me backward. My hat flew off, and my camera swung from my side. I remember placing my right hand down to break my fall.

The man who hit me, perhaps in his 30s, stopped his car and stood over me as I lay on Potomac Street. “Are you OK?” he asked. I didn’t answer at first because I didn’t know if I was OK. “Is he OK?” yelled another man from across the street where he had watched me get hit. Neither of us answered him.

My right arm hurt, but otherwise I felt like I was OK, stunned but clearheaded. The driver helped me get out of the street and onto the curb. “Do you want me to call the squad?” he asked.

“No, I think I’m OK,” I replied. It was the first time I had spoken to him. He helped me move to a picnic table on the sidewalk and left me his name and phone number. With my OK, he drove away.

There was a restaurant at the corner, and a woman stood at the cash register near the door. “I’ve just been hit by a car,” I told her. “Can I use your bathroom to clean up?”

In the bathroom, I peeled off my coat and rolled up my right sleeve. My arm was bloody and scratched from the wrist to the elbow. I did my best to clean it. When I came out, the woman was waiting with a first aid kit and helped me bandage my arm.

Soon I started for home, a three-hour drive. Of all the events of that day, the drive home was by far the hardest. My head and arm hurt, but worst of all was the stress from fighting the interstate traffic. Eventually I got home and was fine again with no aftereffects.

Later I thought of what they tell young reporters, to GOYAKOD or get off your ass, knock on doors. It’s valuable advice, and I was doing just that when I was hit. But perhaps the adage should be modified to add WFTC or watch for turning cars.