c. 2025 Rod Ice
All rights reserved
(3-25)
When I moved in with Betty, on Wearsch Road outside of Chardon, there were many issues to consider. Some were financial in nature, and others related to basic logistics, or budding relations between our families. But I did not give much thought to the fact that living on a gravel road, in a township separated from the nearest population center, would present difficulties. During periods of intense rain and thunderstorms, our lonesome trail would get washed out by nature. This sometimes created deep furrows in the roadway that were all but impossible for my Chevette to navigate. I would find myself teetering along a precarious path. With wheels spinning, stones going airborne, and the motor of my hatchback beast lugging to stay alive. A tractor with grading implements could easily level out the surface, when it arrived. But waiting for relief might require hours or even days.
I became familiar with these unexpected interruptions, as a part of rural living. A tradeoff for having privacy and comfort, throughout the year.
My plain vehicle was not designed to be a champ in winter months, with rear-wheel drive, minimal horsepower on tap, and a light weight overall. The aggressive tires I used at its rear end helped a bit during bouts of lake-effect snow. Something which affected our region with severe consequences. Yet living in Munson Township, on an unimproved route up a hillside, magnified the woes of inclement weather. Occasionally, I was forced to surrender the freedom to roam, completely. Something that I never did with a smile.
On a particular Sunday night in January, I had to nap between shifts at my store, and be back on duty at midnight. Our grocery crew would stock a truckload of edible goods, some 2000 cases or more, by the morning. When I awakened that night, my wife and her son were both in their beds. I banked the wood fire to keep them warm, had a cup of coffee in the kitchen, and then went outside to clean off my boxy Chevrolet.
There were no lights along our rustic boulevard. So, I could not see much past the front porch. We had split logs stacked on one side, for easy access when the conditions were unreasonably harsh. I kept a collection of shovels, buckets, and long-handled ice picks, on the other. After warming up my thrifty mule, I backed out of our driveway, with a bit of sliding and slipping swinging the car’s tail around. My forward progress seemed steady enough to justify heading toward town, without any further delay. But as I crept up the incline, past our yard and the sloped field that lay beyond, suddenly my headlights went dark. I saw a swath of white flakes spill over the hood. Then, the vehicle stalled completely.
I had about a half-hour left, before being late. While yawning at the wheel, I twisted the ignition key once again, shifted into first gear, and let out the clutch. My undersized transport shuddered and howled, and stalled for a second time.
“WHAT THE HELL? WHAT THE HELL? WHAT THE HELL?”
When I tried to get the door open, for a closer inspection of our road, a rush of freezing wind chapped my face. I couldn’t see anything. But a flashlight in the glovebox soon revealed the severity of my plight. There had apparently been no plowing done, since the meteorological outburst had dumped its wrath our neighborhood. That meant the beige beater was buried where it sat. Even with a bit of shoveling, I had little hope of cresting the hill. About two feet of snow, or more, had drifted over the landscape.
With regret, I had to wake up our slumbering brood. I knew that missing a shift would be bad enough in personal terms. Yet leaving my GM mobile in the midst of a traveled route would mean getting rammed by the township crew, when they finally reached our location. It took all three of us, shivering and cursing, and chattering our teeth, just to get my Shove-It back into a safe spot between the trees.
“WHAT THE HELL?”
My boss at the groceteria seemed truly puzzled when I called. He lived in a development on the opposite side of town from our commercial building. Park estates that were maintained with expert care, throughout the season.
“You got stuck? Really? Well, that’s too bad, Rodney! I never spun a tire getting here, made it in about five minutes, just like normal! Everyone else showed up too, I haven’t heard a complaint yet. Anyway, I’ll put you down as being absent for the night. Hope they dig you out by morning! Bob the big boss will probably chew your ass on Tuesday. Be ready, he’s a handful when things don’t go right!!”
I felt sick at my stomach. Not only because of the warning he delivered, but also because lost labor hours would mean a slimmer paycheck. Not something that I wanted to ponder, while warming up in front of our cast-iron stove.
When I reported for duty at my next appointed time, our general manager was standing in the receiving area, with a cheap cigar tucked into one corner of his mouth. His oiled hair glistened in shades of gray and black. One shirttail had already worked its way from under his belt. I expected to get ripped for calling off with a heavy workload having been delivered. But instead, he nodded with mock outrage, and gestured toward the back door, which was wide open.
“I heard yinz got buried the other night. Where the heck do you live, Brother Buck? All the way in Pennsylvania?”
I swallowed hard and heard my gut make noises of gastronomic stress.
“Just outside of Chardon. But we’re down a hillside, not far from the creek.”
Bob tapped his smoldering stogie until ashes scattered on the concrete.
“Too bad yinz don’t live in Pennsylvania, brother. Then there’d be a real football team to watch instead of the wimpy ol’ Browns! Here we go Stillers, here we go! Now that’s a real squad if I ever saw one! Bradshaw is a hall-of-famer, one-hundred percent!”
I shrugged and avoided making eye contact. Finally, he chortled and pointed toward the exit which connected with our sales floor.
“Now go back to work, and forget about it!”
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