It was one of those nagging little fears and you just know that it had to happen sometime.
I was in a hurry, so I started my Jeep, flicked on the lights, the defroster and the heater. I grabbed my snowbrush and in a single motion jumped out of the snow covered vehicle and swung shut the door, which quickly joined its three brothers in a unified “thunk.”
The blood that the wind was already draining from my face raced further inward as the realization of that sound settled in.
The snowbrush had accidentally hit the lock button as I left my already running car.
The fact that you recognize that story and share that fear proves that you, too, spend this part of the year buried in the white stuff.
Like me, you know what it’s like to strain your neck while behind the wheel keeping a lock on those two rosy pink glows in front of you.
Like me, you know what it feels like to have your face frozen solid but your body covered in sweat after a spirited hour of shoveling.
You know the difference between walking on your toes across ice in your dress shoes and walking on your heels through slush to keep the muck off your socks.
You know the feeling of satisfaction at looking at a perfectly cleared driveway, and you know the pang of rage when the plow goes by to close you in all over again.
Like me, you realize the need for sunglasses on a winter afternoon.
You’ve marveled at the unparalleled beauty of tall, snow covered pine trees.
You’ve felt that the closest we may ever come to Peace on Earth is a windless, softly snowing night.
You’ve heard the squeals of delight from children sledding on a hill; you’ve heard the grousing of drivers who spend 45 minutes on what should be a 10 minute trip.
Like me, you are snowbound; bound by the beauty as well as the inconvenience.
To live here is to have it no other way.
HEY! The comments here are still frozen, and that's no snow job. If you want to share your thoughts, even if they're icy, write to me at scott.bremner@35wsee.com and write "Comments" in the subject line so that I don't miss it. No muss, no slush.
Comments
I definitely share a lot of your experiences, but especially the feeling of being bound to the beauty of winter. I really do love winter. But I just have one quick comment on one of the experiences you mentioned.
"Like me, you know what it’s like to strain your neck while behind the wheel keeping a lock on those two rosy pink glows in front of you."
I've been in many white-outs, too. But I never could understand why people trust the car in front of them to be able to see where they are going. If you're concentrating on following that faint rosy glow of the tail lights in front of you, you could be following them right off the road, or worse, right into an oncoming car.
Last week during the huge storm that shut down I90, I was driving on I79 (it was just as bad) and getting off in Edinboro. The line of cars getting off in Edinboro was backed up along the entire exit ramp. It took forever to get onto 6N due to zero visibility. I noticed that many of the cars were not getting off on 6N, and instead were going straight and getting right back on to the interstate. I'm pretty sure they were simply following the faint rosy glow of the tail lights in front of them and not realizing they were exiting.
Blind faith in leadership is never a good thing!
Patti Fowler
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I really enjoy reading your articles, and I am sure that many others would also if they were available in the Erie Times News (print edition). Any chance of that in the future?
Keep up the great work.
Brian Woodward
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Brian,
That really hasn't been discussed, but thanks for the good thoughts.
Scott