Reflections on the Eighth Week of Winter

 When we left for Cleveland Tuesday afternoon, not one flake of snow lay on Wells Wood. The drive home was different. 

   Wednesday evening, after a workday at the Cleveland house clearing clutter, painting, and shoveling snow, we headed east. Fat snowflakes fell. The number of tractor-trailers driving west on Route 322 puzzled me. “Are there more big rigs than usual tonight?” I asked.

    Spence said, “Didn't you hear? The radio said I90 was closed around Cleveland.”

    Windshield whippers clicked. Spence drove the Subaru at 40 mph or less. When he turned on the high beams, glowing snowflakes obscured our view. Low beams highlighted a few car lengths of shiny, snow-covered road.

    In Jamestown, Spence turned onto Adamsville Road. “There will be less traffic,” he said. I wondered how we'd manage the long descent into Adamsville. Luckily, we caught up to a snowplow and followed it down the steep hill. Only twenty more miles to go.

    Spence wound around curves. On the straightaway past Laird, the right front tire hit a two-inch higher pile of snow. The Subaru slid to the right, swerved to the left, slipped back to the right, then fishtailed. To avoid a straight-on collision with a telephone pole, Spence steered the car into a field. But the car slid sideways. The back passenger door hit the pole. The Subaru stopped. Spence shut off the engine.

We gazed at each other and, in unison, asked, “Are you all right?” We were.

    I dug the AAA card from my wallet. Spence keyed the emergency number into his cell. The woman who answered asked, “Is everyone all right?” She took information and ordered a tow.

    A Leonard's tow truck driver called Spence five minutes later. He said he'd arrive in an hour. He had to drive eleven miles back to his shop for the flatbed truck (because he couldn't tow the four-wheel drive Subaru) then drive thirty miles to reach us. “Call the state police. I can't pull you out if the trooper isn't there.”

    Spence called 911.

    We sat in the cooling car.

    “We're alive. We're in love,” Spence said. “What else do we need?”

    I squeezed his hand and quoted Winnie the Pooh. “Together whatever.”

    A white pickup stopped on the road. A hefty man got out, walked to the Subaru, and tapped on Spence's window.

    We climbed out of the car.

    The man asked, “Are you all right?”

    Spence said we were and explained the slip-sliding incident.

    “Do you know who owns this field?” I asked. “Is this the field full of flowers in the summer?”

    “It's mine. The black-eyed Susans will be even more beautiful this year. I'm adding two more acres in the back.” He introduced himself as Dan and offered to let us warm up in his kitchen.

    “I want to stay with the car till the state trooper arrives,” Spence said.

    “I'll come over if I get cold,” I said. “Thanks.”

    “I have to take my son home to write his valentines for school tomorrow, but I'll be back to check on you.”

    We watched Dan's tail lights go down the road a quarter of a mile and disappear into the garage under a farm house with a light shining in the kitchen window.

    We sat back in the chilly car, held hands, and waited.

    Another pickup truck driver stopped to ask, “Are you okay?”

    Spence assured the neighbor we were fine, said the tow truck was on the way, and thanked him for stopping.

    Dan returned with a thermos of coffee and two Styrofoam cups. He poured the steaming liquid and handed us each a cup. “If you don't want to drink it, hold it to warm your hands.”

    Holding the cup did warm my hands. I took a deep breath and savored the aroma.

    “My wife has hot chili ready if you want to come up to the kitchen for some,” Dan said.

    Spence shook his head. “Thanks, but we already ate.”

    “You're welcome to come over if you get cold,” Dan said. He shook our hands and left.

    Spence did get cold around the time a friendly state trooper came and turned on his flashers. He requested Spence's license and the Subaru's insurance and registration cards. When the trooper finished the preliminary report, the tow truck arrived.

    Spence asked the driver, “Can you take us home after you drop the car off at Matt's? It's only three more miles.”

    “My husband's chilled,” I said. “He needs to warm up.”

    “Sit in my cab. It's warm,” the driver said, “but I can't take you home. I have three more people waiting.”

    In the cab Spence shivered, and I called Kathy. Because it was after nine-thirty, the time I'd usually be in my nightgown, I asked, “Are you still dressed? Did I wake you?”

    “Of course I'm dressed. What's up?”

    We arranged that I'd call her when the tow truck got close to Matt's. But when I called back, Kathy said, “Tom's already there. He didn't want you to wait in the cold.”

    In the country, houses may be far apart, but neighbors can be close.