c. 2025 Rod Ice
All rights reserved
(9-25)
With the year quickly moving toward its final quarter, and leaves falling on my porch every day, I have felt a change in mood while enjoying cool beverages outside. One with reflections upon the approach of winter weather coming to mind, as I play the role of a budget-bound chef at my charcoal grill. As ever, the summer season seems to have moved along at a frantic pace, with weeks dropping from the calendar in defiance of the joyful moments that they represent. Now, there is an eerie crispness in the air. One not always so evident at first, yet present enough to linger in the back of my mind with consequence. Waiting, watching, and preparing itself for meteorological dominance to come.
This is the way of our world.
In yonder days, before my career slid into a bricklike obstruction of early retirement, I trembled at this point in the earth’s journey around Old Sol. I would wonder about making it to work at various points on the map, and experience an even greater level of trepidation when considering that my return home, long after dark, would entail navigating snowbound routes that were unlit, sporadically maintained, and far off the beaten path of civilized communities.
Living in a rural enclave by the county line has advantages, when the sun shines, and greenery is able to flourish. But when a deluge of frozen muck arrives, with its frosty, flaky companions, I often used to wish for a closer spot to more metropolitan areas. My own inclination toward small-town life, and the fellowship of such gentle neighborhoods, always kept me searching for a suitable midpoint between these two opposites. It is why, on more than one occasion, I looked at homes located within the City of Geneva, itself. Once, at a residence directly across from Giant Eagle, which I reckoned would be undeniably convenient, year-round.
Because my last stop on the retailing expressway meant managing on a second-shift schedule, which would sometimes last until midnight or later, I found that owning a 4x4 pickup truck was indispensable for getting where I needed to go without worry. Generally, this meant that I could point the nose of my sturdy mule into the headwinds, facing south on Route 534, and go forward with confidence. Though on some occasions, with white precipitation falling rapidly, and the roadway difficult to locate, I would think that sleeping on a pallet in our stockroom might have been a better choice.
One of these persistent memories still reverberates, when I see the change from green to brown begin. I recall a particular night when the store where I was employed had suffered through a lonely, empty cycle of futility. Customers were few. A couple actually arrived on snowmobiles for beer and minimal grocery fare. After locking up for the evening, I dug out my gas-powered beast, let it warm to a civilized temperature, and clicked the gearbox into action. My trek wasn’t too challenging along South Broadway, past a row of closed fast-food depots, Dale’s Truck Stop, Spire, and GetGo. But as I rolled over the crest of this busy boulevard, now nearly silent and appearing forlorn, I reached the point where darkness enveloped the landscape. My headlights were the only source of brightness. Traveling at a slow and deliberate velocity, I crossed the bridge, and began to ascend once more, past the Sonny Lanes bowling alley. With care, I had managed to build up some speed before attempting to navigate this uphill curve. Yet suddenly, I saw a tiny, economy sedan, and a Chevrolet rig that must have been running sans any 4WD motorvation.
Both were crawling along like twin snails. Barely able to maintain their progress.
I was having a hard time seeing anything, and had my face nearly pressed against the windshield. Both hands gripped the steering wheel, tightly. I was sweating profusely, in defiance of the bitter cold, outside. I knew that tucking in behind this duo would mean risking my own position, as a safe voyager through the wild bout of lake-effect bluster. So, with a sideways glance and a quick turn of my wrist, I pulled out into the other lane. Then, let my workhorse sloppily propel itself past the slower traffic. I was almost sideways before catching traction again. The tires on my truck dug deeply. Windows on both sides of the cab were frozen. But the impulsive strategy worked.
I salivated for a brew, upon reaching the top of my route. There was a twelve-pack of Yuengling back in the open bed, chilling as I drove home. It would be at a perfect drinking temperature, when I finally completed my trip.
Blessings appeared as I passed the Cork Elementary School, and journeyed toward an eventual rendezvous with Route 166. There was a plow vehicle ahead, with lights flashing in alternating colors. I felt grateful to be following its lead. Now, the two of us were in sync. I crept along in the wake of this behemoth for a few miles, with my face burning hot. I had to strip off my knit cap and gloves. When turning right at Smolic’s Tire, I realized that there were no tracks in the snow, so far as my weary eyes could see. The horizon had turned invisible. Only an occasional glow of holiday lights, at farms along this meandering course, offered any sign of being inhabited by hardy folk.
At my humble abode, everything was buried. I had to park in the street and shovel, just to enter the driveway. Snow on the front steps was almost up to my knees. I opened the front door, and allowed both dogs to run free. Then, crossed myself as a sign of good faith and gratitude. And, took a bottle from my chilled stash, in the truck bed.
In modern days, I no longer have to summon the strength for such crazed, winter adventures. When it is awful outside, I simply stay at home. There is no need to risk ditching my rig, to earn a living. I stock up ahead of time, and sit with a fireplace streaming via YouTube, on my television. Often, passing out in the living room as winds continue to howl, outside. My existence is a simple one now. Limited in scope by disability, and a meager stipend from Social Security. Yet with the reflection of memories that remain, it is a vast reserve of tales, that may be brought to mind, as desired.
In the end, this my reward for endurance. A fitting exchange of yesterdays, for today.
No comments:
Post a Comment