Reflections on the Tenth Week of Winter

    I slipped behind the wheel of our new Subaru Crosstrek and inhaled the mixed fragrances of plastic, metal, and adhesives. Though the new car smell will fade, the memory of my first drive Friday morning won't.

    In the parking lot of A. Crivelli Subaru in Franklin, fat snow flakes splatted the white Crosstrek. The car has a flat four engine, five speed manual transmission, all wheel drive, and a higher ground clearance than our previous Imprezas. I shifted the gear stick into first, eased out the clutch, and steered the Crosstrek onto Route 62 South. Driving three blocks on the four lane highway, I adjusted windshield wiper speeds, tested the defrost control, and discovered how to squirt washer fluid.

    Spence followed in our red Chevy truck.

    The new car purred like a kitten. Giddy with pleasure, I tried out the hands-free phone system. I pushed the “Talk” switch on the steering column and enunciated, “Call Spence.”

The control screen lit up and listed 1) Spencer Charles and 2) Spencer Thomas. While I concentrated on city traffic, a female computer voice said, “Say a number.”

    I said, “Two” for Spencer Thomas.

    The computer voice instructed, “Say dial.”

    I said, “Dial,” the phone rang, and Spence answered.

    “The phone is magic!” I said.

    “It's just a phone,” he said. “Be careful. It's slippery.”

    Wipers clicked, and slush swished under the tires. I caught up to a small-sized tank truck on Route 322 by the French Creek s-curves. The tanker slid to the right then fishtailed to the left.

    I recalled the last ride in our previous Subaru–like being in a dodgem car we'd swerved and slid off Adamsville Road into a snow covered field and the side of a telephone pole. In this case, I didn't need the car's computer voice to instruct me. I commanded myself. Don't panic. Slow down.

    I pressed the brake. The anti-lock system engaged and vibrated the pedal under my foot. The Crosstrek slowed increasing the distance between the tanker and me to four car lengths.

    The tanker jackknifed.

    Would it slide into French Creek? Would it crash into an oncoming car?

    At six car lengths behind, I eased off the break and held my breath.

    The tanker straightened and moved forward. More magic.

     I exhaled a gallon of air, gripped the wheel, and stayed eight car lengths behind the tanker till it turned left onto the Utica Road.

    At a modest speed, I wound through back roads to our log house. Muddy slush covered the bottom of the white car and brown icicles hung from the frame. The car still looked new–just winter-driving tested.