Is it Spring yet?

I hate winter. I know, I know, I shouldn't be living in New England, then. The fact is, the only time I find snow acceptable is between Thanksgiving and New Year's. After that, I'm ready for the big thaw. Which is unfortunate, since many years, things haven't even completely frozen over by then.

This extremely rational loathing of the season is particularly strong now that I live on the corner of two streets that are subject to winter weather parking bans. Maybe someday I'll get to City Hall to get a resident sticker (problematic, since my address is West Roxbury, but the resident parking streets are Rozzie); however, considering that would require me taking a bit of PTO at work, I am inclined to instead panic over every storm and park on the one street that isn't resident-only or parking-ban prone, and get scolded by one of its residents, Ms. Don't Park Across from My House Lady (she scared me so much the first time, that I didn't think I could park on that street ever again...and then in the midst of one snowstorm, I asked a man who lived on that street if he knew of any good parking places, and he told me that his street was perfect....rendering that lady a complete and utter PITA).

So far this winter, my parking experiences have been rather painless--a miracle, really, considering the amount of storms we've already had. Still, I have one winter traveling story that I shall now recall (buckle up, folks).

My family lives in rural Maine. The Western foothills, as it were, and not particularly near anything of note. I was able to obtain a few days off for Christmas, and made my way North. Christmas Eve rolled around and lo and behold, there were threats of ice storms coming from the TV. My family, long time Maine drivers, seemed unconcerned, since it hadn't begun in the afternoon, and decided that driving the 45 minutes of back roads (and I mean, over-the-river-and-through-the-woods back roads) to and from Christmas Eve service would be completely achievable.

I should mention that I am the oldest of seven children, all of whom were home for Christmas, and the family car is a Kia Sedan.

It was decided that, since one of my brothers had taken his large SUV to his girlfriend's house for dinner, I would be the second driver. Two brothers piled into my Honda hatchback, and the rest somehow crammed themselves into my parents' car. I followed my father along the twists and turns, and despite a few slips and slides up and down hills (some roads are rarely plowed, it would seem), we made it safely to church just as the rain began.

Before we left after the service, I told my father that my car is terrible in winter weather, and that I would have to go unbelievably slow in order to assure a safe return, since the rain was now begin to ice over. He suggested that he would follow behind my car, so that if anything were to happen, they'd be there to help out. I told him I'd rather him not follow me, since it makes me nervous to have other people scrutinize my driving from behind (also, I hadn't slept much the night before, and was in a foul mood). He insisted, I obeyed.

Sometimes, fathers really do know best. About 6 miles or so from home, I was only going about 10 MPH, as I descended a slight hill on the backest of back roads when all of the sudden things were spinning around, and I found myself face first in a snowbank. Thankfully, I had been going slow enough that the impact hadn't harmed the body of the car (though cosmetically speaking, nothing would bother me, Ethel the Civic has had a lot of trauma in her day); more importantly, my brothers (aged 21 and 18) and I (age not important, though dangerously close to 24 these days) were unscathed. But my car was half way down a banking (filled with slush and about 3 feet of snow), and there was no getting her out.

Because my father had been following me, he pulled over and informed me that he had hit the same ice and almost plowed right on into me, so we should definitely not be waiting near the car. So we walked down to the nearest driveway (about 150 feet or so away from the car, at the bottom of the hill), as I proceeded to get all weepy. Nobody was home at the house, which was the only house for quite a ways. It was, after all, about 8 PM on Christmas Eve. Most people aren't spending it in snowbanks.

In an unlikely turn of events, nobody had their cell phones on them--except for me. It should be noted that my father, mother, and two of my brothers all own and regularly carry cell phones. Because they live in rural Maine, they have services that actually work there. My phone, however, is on permanent roam anywhere north of Portland (and we certainly are north of Portland). I had one battery bar left, as I winced and called AAA. First of all, the operator had no idea how to find me. I was on a rural route (quite literally, RR 14o, in fact), and not at all in Massachusetts. I was informed that it would be 2 hours before a tow truck could get to me.

It was still raining, mind you, and there was no place to go for cover. There are no street lamps, so the only light was coming from the emergency flashers on my half-buried car. It was determined that, rather than make my parents and three siblings who were crammed in the back wait for 2 hours in the storm, that they would go home and my father would come back in his Jeep to check on us, and possibly just take us home should AAA never arrive.

So they drove off, leaving me with two brothers and nothing to do but wait.

Eventually, an SUV coming from the opposite direction pulled over. A man and his wife, probably in their upper forties, asked us what happened. After I explained, they said that the town (Canton, Maine) was terrible about sanding during storms, and this had happened before when it's been icy. They said they knew the people who lived in the house we were standing in the driveway of, and lead us up to their garage to get some shovels out. We found two, and my brothers each took hold of them. The couple suggested we that go shovel out the front of my car, so that when someone comes to pull us out, it would be easier. They said they would call the town to have them sand, but even better--they would call a neighbor who happened to have the tools and vehicle necessary to yank me on out of that ditch.

Soaking wet, and shivering, my brothers and I began to walk on the side of the road up to my unfortunate little car. About halfway up, a car came from the other direction down the hill. It hit the ice--and began sliding right at us. It was something out of a movie--headlights coming helplessly directly at three bewildered youths on some abandoned road. "JUMP!" I yelled, and all three of us, and the shovels, went running and flying down into the banking below as the driver miraculously regained control of his car and avoided taking us all out in some sort of Christmas Eve tragedy.

We continued to walk up the road, only this time when we saw the fog illuminate in the distance, we knew to pre-emptively head down the banking. This time, the driver could not regain control, and about 20 feet above my car's flashing lights, another car began blinking as it discovered it, too, had spun around and gone halfway down a ditch.

Now we have two cars down a ditch. The SUV couple decided that enough was enough, and went to drive up the street to where the closest neighbors were to ask them to put their car out with flashing lights so that people would know that it is dangerous ahead. As they left, my brothers began shoveling. I watched. And started to feel really, really hot, about to vomit, dizzy, and blacking out around the corners. I've only fainted twice before (once after giving blood, and once when bleeding profusely after a bagel-slicing incident went awry), but I knew that was what was about to happen. I sat down into the snow and shoved my face into the white stuff, hoping to snap myself out of it.

The SUV couple returned, and soon after, a Jeep with a rope tow and silent elderly driver with a cigarette in his mouth arrived to the relief of us all. Since I was sitting in a stupor with my face in the snow, SUV man got out and asked if he could drive the car while cigarette man towed me on out. I mumbled something, probably a "yes, please," but could just have easily been something about Christian Bale or bunnies. Either way, he got in the driver's seat, and my car was, with a few quick tugs, removed from the snowbank of doom, as the SUV man drove my car safely into the driveway where we had stood for so long before.

Just when I was beginning to think the ordeal was over, about three steps into walking down to my car, I lost my footing and fell completely flat and sprawled out in the middle of the road. Head and tailbone thoroughly pavement-smacked. Contents of my purse flying everywhere. Rain now falling directly onto my face. Despite the pain and the surprise and the weariness and the sheer embarrassment of it all, I had to laugh, collect my things, and continue walking.

As the Jeep yanked the other car out, I got on my cell (now flashing "low battery") to call home to inform them that, if my dad hadn't left home yet, he didn't need to. He had, of course, it was now 9:15 or so. I tried to call AAA to cancel their service, and my phone shut off. So, shivering, wet, with numb extremities and a head rush, my brothers and I blasted the heat in the car and waited for my father to come.

About 20 minutes later, he did. Just after a sand truck, thanks to the call of the SUV people, went past. In what might have been the cutest thing ever, he had brought all of the extra blankets in the house with him, assuming we had been standing out in the rain all of that time.

My brother offered to drive, an offer I normally would not have taken up (I'm nervous about other people driving my car because it has no power steering and is a bit of a tricky little beast), but gratefully accepted. Not going above 15 MPH (I gasped aloud whenever he would begin to accelerate), and my father's trusty Jeep's lights right behind us, we finally, finally made it home. At 10 PM on Christmas Eve.

I have never been in the Christmas spirit as much as I was when I got home and changed into warm, dry clothes and drank some wine that my mother had opened for our return home. It was my own little Christmas miracle. I was George Bailey coming home at last.

A large part of that Christmas miracle was the SUV couple. They got the road sanded, got us shovels, got us safely out of the ditch, and gave me comfort when I was losing my mind. I never got their names or address, and I desperately wish that I had--a gift basket of thanks would no doubt be on their front door by now. I think they represent, in a huge way, the generosity of the Maine people. Here in Massachusetts (at least in the greater Boston area), if I went off the road, and halfway into a ditch, I have a feeling people who would drive by would just honk because I was somehow in the way. There is little doubt in my mind that nobody here would give up an hour of their evening on Christmas Eve to help a slightly incoherent out-of-state stranger get out of a ditch.