In the late 1970s, Farmington, New Mexico, was in the vanguard of middle-of-the-block crosswalks. The city painted white lines and put up crosswalk pedestrian signs. Unsuspecting drivers would screech to a halt, narrowly missing pedestrians. Often, one lane stopped but the adjoining lane did not. There were many near-misses. The speed limit was 25 mph to 30 mph.
An attractive auburn-haired model in her early 20s had moved to Farmington. She was a tall, willowy, porcelain-skinned girl who had accepted a business position in town.
One bright, sunny day she stepped into the crosswalk, believing the lie that drivers would see her and automatically jam on the brakes.
It was an awful accident, at an estimated 25 mph to 35 mph. She was permanently disfigured. She stayed in Farmington a couple more years, then moved away.
The people of Farmington felt so bad about it that those killer crosswalks went bye-bye immediately.
I never committed suicide by lawfully stepping in front of drunks in pickups; thus, I've lived another 40-plus years.
We prayed for her recovery. I still wonder what happened to the pretty girl in the prime of her life.