Snow Wins Again

My dad is usually a rational man who employs the necessary amount of critical thinking towards a situation.  When I was a child, he could always figure out the solution to whatever problem was ailing me.  He developed an almost Superman-ish aura in my eyes.  Sadly, my dad has his own kryptonite. 

We live in the country.  When it snows and the wind blows, the driveway drift grows.  My dad drives a G8… with sport tires.  Like all great superheroes, my dad is confident in his ability to defeat all villains.  He’ll be damned if Mother Nature and her snow drifts get the best of him, especially when he has somewhere important to go.  He’s also supremely confident in his car’s ability to get him there.

Year after year, it never fails.  At some point, my dad will attempt to power through a wall of snow and the sheet of ice beneath it in our driveway.  In an effort to rectify his mistake, he’ll dig himself deeper and further off the path.  We’ll have to come out and rescue him.  It will always be bitterly cold.  We’ll all vow to take the necessary precautions so it doesn’t happen again next year.  For example, last year’s debacle led to the rule that only my sister and I are allowed to park our cars in the far north bay where you need to back out at an angle and the ground slopes more sharply.

Let’s flash back to a yearly conversation I have with my dad sometime around September.

Me:  So you’re finally gonna get a 2^nd set of tires that perform better in the winter and swap them in when the time comes, right?

Dad:  That’s probably a good idea.

Me:  I think so.  Isn’t that what they recommended at the dealership when you bought the car?

Dad: They did mention that, yes.

Me:  Remember when we had to shovel and push you out of the yard last year?  That was a major pain.

Dad:  My car is just no good in the snow.

Me:  [chuckling] It sure isn’t.

I woke up Sunday morning.  A shudder swept through my body like I was being forewarned about the evils of the outside.  I didn’t know why.  It was Wildcard weekend of the NFL playoffs.  I had absolutely no intention of doing anything other than staying curled up under a blanket and watching football. 

It did dawn on me that others in my family would be braving the elements.  I knew it was snowing a lot over the weekend and I knew the wind was howling.  The thought of reliving my favorite winter pastime with my dad’s car slowly rose inside of me.  I crept to my window and peered out with trepidation of what I might see.  My brother’s truck had pierced a path through the drive with apparently no struggle at all.  I exhaled a huge sigh of relief.  Everybody, including my dad, would be able to safely reach their destination.

That shivering feeling that accompanied my awakening suddenly made more sense.  Of course, I reminded myself, it’s just really freaking cold in my room.  I complain about it all the time.  Don’t believe me?  Well, the following day I noticed some dust building up around the floorboards in the corner of my room.  It was cold to the touch.  Wait.  Dust…cold?  Oh, it’s just frost.  That’s much better.  At least I don’t have to clean.  (Actually, I really do need to clean, but that’s neither here nor there.)

Eventually, I worked my way downstairs for some breakfast I was pretty excited about.  My sister had tipped me off to some new French toast sticks in the freezer.  I used to heat those up all the time as a kid and it had been years since I made some in the oven.   I was practically drooling as I imagined drowning the sticks in syrup and coating the top in cinnamon.

After tossing the sticks in the oven, I strolled to the TV room feeling good about being me.  I stole a glance out the front door and noticed my dad backing out of the driveway.  There was a fleeting twinge of panic, but I had sufficiently stifled my fears earlier. I didn’t linger to see the results.

I queued up the recording of that week’s episode of The Big Bang Theory.  Shortly after, I heard the oven buzzer sound, signaling my golden-brown deliciousness was ready for consumption.  As I passed by the front door again, I noticed my dad’s car in roughly the same position it had previously been in.   No, it can’t be.  This is NOT happening again! 

I immediately conjured up a couple plausible explanations for the sight before me.  Maybe my dad had received a call on his cell.  Being the safe, prudent driver he is, he had decided to pause and take the call rather than doing so while driving in less than ideal conditions.  Or maybe he had stopped after considering that the other vehicles in the drive deserved to have the snow brushed off of them.  He is a very thoughtful person after all.  The driver’s side was obscured from my angle, so it was possible that he was not actually sitting in the car.

What my brain had failed to factor in earlier was the 4x4 capability and higher ground clearance of my brother’s truck.  Just because his vehicle could traverse the terrain, it didn’t necessarily guarantee safe passage for the rest of us.  Cut me some slack; I had just woken up.  The brain cells weren’t firing on all cylinders yet.

As I saw the car’s wheels helplessly spinning and the machine slowly beginning its descent into the chasm, my worst fears were realized.  Thus began an internal struggle.

I knew I should go out there and help.  The man was trying to get to church.  Failure to grab a shovel could be seen as an indirect act against God.  Even though I’m not a particularly religious person anymore, I was raised Catholic.  Some parts of your education, such as the fear of a vengeful deity, never completely fade.  Then the oven sounded again.  Oh yeah, the French toast sticks.  They beckoned me to them.  I opened the front door a crack and the blast of cold air forced me to retreat.  Surely God could overlook the absence of one of his patrons just this once in the face of such extenuating circumstances.

Around this time, my sister came downstairs.  I may or may not have brought attention to the situation unfolding outside in a last-ditch effort to pass off responsibility.  She too realized that some assistance would be the honorable thing to do.  I motioned to my breakfast plate with a longing look that suggested it would be a waste to let the food grow cold.  Fortunately, she is also someone who understands the lure of fresh French toast sticks.  In an effort to seal my argument, I played the injury card.  It had been barely more than a week since my knee surgery.  On 1.5 legs, my effectiveness would be somewhat diminished.  How could she refute my logic? 

My sister relented and bundled up for the task.  Thanks to the helpful folks at Farmers Insurance, I now know that kitty litter is useful for gaining traction in such situations.  We used to have an outdoor/garage cat and a bag of unused kitty litter remains.  I made sure to remind my sister of this before she headed outside.

I felt compelled to play the role of supervisor, so I planted myself by the front door with a watchful eye.  If there is anything worse than busting your ass out in the cold, it’s doing so while someone eyes you from the warm, cozy confines inside.  Regardless of your actual feelings, it is nearly impossible to convey sympathy for those outside.  I made no such attempt.  In fact, I observed with a huge shit-eating grin on my face.  Clutching my plate, I made sure to shovel some food in my mouth whenever my sister’s gaze turned to the door.

After lots of shoveling and a heavy application of the aforementioned kitty litter, my dad tried to gun it to dislodge the car.  Alas, it was no use.  Just when it seemed time to return to the drawing board, my dad floored it one last time.  My sister had assumed her pushing duties were temporarily suspended, so she had since re-positioned herself around the side of the car next to the tire.  The angle was just right.  A collection of snow, crushed silica materials, and god knows what sprayed her directly in the face.

At this point I just about lost it.  My guilt could not suppress the laughter bubbling inside of me.  I had been lulled into a French toast-induced coma and I cackled with glee.  My delight was short-lived, however.  My brain had already begun processing the next steps.  Hey, genius, you do realize whose services will be enlisted if they can’t free that car?

As I tugged on my Sorel boots (which are awesome by the way), I couldn’t help but think how my dad had been bested again by his old foe.  If only I had introduced him to Mr. Plow.