Follow the Plow
|
|
| 2/17/2010 |
by Ames S.
amess@sober24.com
I was driving up to Connecticut in the snow the other day to visit my sister when the light dusting the weathermen had predicted became more like a raging blizzard and the highway I was on suddenly got icier and harder to see. My sister had just lost both of her beloved longtime pets to natural causes within two weeks of each other and was feeling the incredible loss of what were family members to her.
Winter’s not her favorite time of year, either, and the combination of the death of her pets and the stranglehold the last few months of snow had put on the little lakeside community where she lives made it hard to feel too positive about things. My wife and I figured a visit couldn’t hurt, so we hopped in the car and headed out from the city.
Normally, it’s about an hour and a half drive, but as the snow began to build, everything slowed to a crawl. We saw a bunch of accidents along the road, spin-outs and minor fender-benders, mostly, but clearly it was getting nasty.
I’ve always enjoyed driving and I have a special fondness for driving under adverse conditions, as it always seems to sharpen my concentration. Nevertheless, when we finally got off the highway and onto the series of back roads that led to my sister’s, I had a few anxious moments as the car fishtailed going up a few of the many hills we had to navigate and skidded here and there as we hit patches of ice hidden beneath the slushy crust covering the road.
I’ve driven those roads for years and under many different conditions, both drunk and sober, and know them like the proverbial back of my hand. I was grateful, however, to finally pull into her driveway, shut the car off and just sit for a moment in the silence of the falling snow.
“We just happened to be in the neighborhood,” my wife said as my sister came to the door, smiling.
She was grateful for the company and we sat around the fireplace in her living room, eating chicken chili, drinking hot tea and watching the Olympics on her flat screen TV.
We talked a little bit about how she was feeling, cried a bit, and spent a goodly portion of time trying to figure out exactly what was happening as we watched the U.S. take on Germany in curling.
The snow continued to swirl outside and, as the sun began to sink behind the hills overlooking the lake, I began to think about the ride home.
When my wife and I finally left, it was dark outside. The snow had tapered off, leaving a thick blanket of white on all the trees, draping each branch like thick moss. It was like a winter wonderland and as we drove slowly and carefully alongside the lake it was like being in another world.
I had to stop a few times, nonetheless, to clear ice from the windshield wipers and scrape off the slush that had accumulated on the outside rear-view mirrors. I could feel the wheels slipping again as I pulled up to an intersection at the top of a hill and was projecting a long and arduous trip home when a huge snowplow appeared at the intersection and turned down the road ahead of me.
To say it was the answer to my prayers would be an exaggeration, yet as I pulled through the intersection into the kindly wake of the snowplow, I did feel a certain comfort pass through me, a calmness settling in as I relaxed just slightly back into my seat, gripped the steering wheel just a little less tightly.
Freed from our vigilance over unexpected twists, turns or icy patches in the road ahead, my wife and I talked about our shared recollections of winter and how it seemed there was always snow on the ground when we were kids. We talked about our own kids and our hopes and dreams for them, about sobriety and how grateful we both are to be in recovery.
In fact, it got so comfortable driving along behind the plow that when it turned down a secondary road I was unfamiliar with, I turned in too, following along. Even as I was turning, though, I knew it was a wrong turn and that after the unexpected respite I would have to bite the bullet once more and face the road without my protector, the plow.
Reluctantly, I turned into the first driveway I saw and turned around. Having made it through the most difficult stretch of road behind the plow, the main road now seemed easier than I had expected, even without the snowplow ahead of me, and by the time I got to the highway, it was apparent that the roads had been sufficiently cleared to make the rest of the journey home far easier than the journey out. Driving carefully, but comfortably, my wife and I got home in time to rustle up some dinner and catch a little bit more of the Olympics before heading off to bed.
When I woke up in the morning, the sense of calm that I felt in being behind the plow remained. I thought about my sister in her house alongside the lake, alone without her pets, and I hoped that she, too, would find a snowplow; one that would clear the way through the most difficult part of her grief and lead her to where the road broadens out again and the world is filled with mystery and natural wonders, like the enigmatic art of curling and the simple majesty of snow-covered trees.
|
|
|
|