Nobody Reads This Page – "Snow Run"

 

c. 2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(1-24)

 

 

I have never been one to worry much about the approach of winter chaos. Particularly since buying my first pickup truck, around 35 years ago. Having four-wheel drive kept me on the road when needed. Particularly for the purpose of getting to work, where I could earn an income to support my family. Necessity has always overwhelmed hesitation in being active during bouts of inclement weather. In a sense, each of these adventures felt like an accomplishment, afterward. A challenge from Mother Nature, accepted and met.

 

But with my slide into disability, retirement, and living alone, priorities changed. I no longer held uninterrupted mobility as a primary focus. Instead, the need to stay vertical became my goal. Hobbling down icy porch steps, and through drifts of frosty white, suddenly had a character more dangerous than before. I needed to pace myself, and stay safe. Household chores, appointments, and family visits could wait.

This new discipline meant staying ready for intermittent lapses in between outbursts of climate wrath. Warmer days, clear roads, and brightening skies could offer motivation to get stocked up before the next passing of blustery woes. Yet I had to remain vigilant and attentive, or lose the chance to keep myself ahead of the curve.

 

A recent example of this new phenomenon came after those in my county had survived a long week of single-digit temperatures and overcast skies. Huddling inside with the windows glazed over, and my furnace running incessantly, created a mood of seasonal isolation. One that made me feel oddly like a canned sardine, trapped by circumstance. But a break in the forecast came as reports of another, more violent system that would soon be present got my blood circulating again. After coffee and PB toast on a Thursday morning, I layered myself with a camo hoodie, winter coat, gloves and knit cap bearing a Harley-Davidson crest. My black SUV started willingly upon a first turn of the key, and warmed itself as I struggled around the vehicle perimeter with one cane, scraping and brushing away the crystalized precipitation.

 

My rural environment remained one that offered few creature comforts, particularly in months like January. But only a short distance away was the rustic community of Rock Creek, a timeless outpost where the clock literally seemed to have quit ticking. Cantini’s Village Market became my intended destination for the trip. A vending spot that would provide things I needed, like cases of beer, ground beef, fresh-baked pepperoni rolls, and packaged hash browns. Their small footprint is one I have always found easy to navigate, while offering a bounty of home needs. And their staff has the pleasant, local feel of a crew very much in sync with the blue-collar area.

 

The eastward drive away from my residence park felt invigorating. Particularly after so much downtime behind closed doors. I was glad to get back up to speed, and be running free. My dashboard radio squawked with a familiar refrain of sports stories from Cleveland. Assistant coaches for the Browns franchise being fired, a postmortem analysis of their stalled playoff run, possible situations for the team going forward, and the drama of callers who stood ready to deliver lots of strong opinions in real time. This lively soundtrack turned my journey into an abbreviated experience. I had barely listened for a few minutes, when the country jaunt was finished.

 

Inside the friendly emporium, I took a narrow shopping cart and headed for their last aisle to the right, which was flanked with a row of refrigerated cases and floor displays. As always, I lingered while reading labels. Genesee, Pabst, Busch, Steel Reserve, Budweiser, Coors, Yuengling, and others that were familiar. This exercise was one I reenacted with every visit. Despite the fact that the actual choice had already been made, even before pulling out of my driveway.

 

When I reached the front register with two 24-count suitcases of Miller Lite, and a heap of edible goodies, the cashier on duty smiled with recognition.

 

“Are you stocking up now, before we get more snow? That’s what I have been trying to plan all day. I stand here making a mental list. Asking myself, ‘What do I need to buy before going home?’ I don’t want to forget anything. There’s no chance I’ll go back out in that horrible mess, once it starts coming down! Why can’t we live in a place like Florida?”

 

I laughed at her casual comment, while unloading my buggy.

 

“Those people have unbearable heat in the summer, rain almost every day, and hurricanes. That’s what I hear from friends who moved south for a change of pace. I’m more used to the way it is here at home. These months can be a challenge, but otherwise, it’s not too bad. Maybe I’ve just gone numb from seeing so many winters go by...”

 

The store clerk laughed until her long, glistening curls began to jostle rhythmically.

 

“Doesn’t the cold make your bones ache, sir? It’s no shame to admit you’ve had enough!”

 

I leaned on the commercial cart for support, while lifting bagged items that had been already been scanned.

 

“You’re on target there, but I don’t fight the elements nowadays. Winter gives me a chance to work at my desk. I get things done that wouldn’t happen otherwise. Warm days mean I am out on my porch, with a brew. My social network is different from being on the computer. I wave and talk and stay in touch with anyone going by my hut. That keeps me feeling alive. It reminds my neighbors that I’m still in the saddle.”

 

The young woman nodded and giggled while finishing my order.

 

“You sound like my grandpa, that old soul will never leave Ohio! He says it builds character to live where the thermometer falls to zero every year, and below. I’ve heard him talk about running a plow with his beard frozen over, and a thermos of coffee on the seat in his rig. With nothing but logs in the fireplace, when he got home. Those were different times! I’m not so tough, maybe. Give me a beach and lots of sunshine! That’s what I dream about on days like this one...”

 

After loading the rear hatch of my little hauler, I steered west once more, toward Thompson Township. At home, there would be more work to accomplish. Unloading all of my grocery acquisitions, sorting things into their designated places in the cupboards, taking out the trash, and getting ready for my evening routine. One typically consisting of imbibing alcoholic beverages and gnawing on salty snacks, while amusing myself with trivial programs on YouTube. Such as vintage reruns of Jerry Springer episodes, or antique car reviews.

 

A woman next door was arriving home as I backed into my space on our street. I wanted to shout some sort of greeting across the yard that separated her longbox from mine. But a tingle of snowflakes in my eyes kept me from lingering too long. I decided that getting inside was a more important concern. Only two weeks remained until the first day of February. And from then, a short slog through that pivotal month until March. Thanks to the calendar’s advance, hope and meteorological healing did not lie far away.

 

Now, I had enough suds on hand to make it that far.