Frozen H2Oh Boy

My second job – the one that makes the ends meet – is transporting the Wall Street Journal from the West Middlesex PA print site up to Erie PA. Technically, I manage the transportation. Practically, I just do it myself and keep the money instead of subcontracting it out. It also lets me keep my cool and just plan to do it instead of having people call off at the last minute. I really don't mind the time alone driving the 180 mile round trip. I listen to Podcasts, audio books, talk radio, etc. I have time to think, ponder, and ruminate over the world's ills. I can sing at the top of my lungs and scream at other drivers without my wife punching me in the arm. It's great. The answer to keeping your sanity with a home filled with 7 children – leave for 4 hours every night.

There have been travels that I will always remember. One happened on the night of a bad ice storm. Or I should say, the night of a freezing rain that coated all it touched and made the surfaces bright. Everything was shiny and sparkly. My wipers had two inches of ice encasing them so they were useless. I'd tried to break the ice off of them by reaching around out the window and banging them against the windshield. But that didn't work out very well. I just got an ice encrusted arm out of it. At the rest-stop before Edinboro I got out and tried to clear the wipers and scrape the windows. My first step out of the vehicle onto the pavement should have been narrated by Bob Saget. There may have been a split second when no part of my body was actually touching the ground. But quickly enough I was reacquainted with terra firma. Ouch. If it wasn't so wet I might have just laid there for a bit while my bones reset themselves. I stood up and gracefully tried to compose myself. I hand-squeegeed the water off my backside and knees and looked around to see if anyone was watching. There were several faces staring at me out of a minivan several spaces down. The lady just gave me a little wave. The kids started cracking up in the back. Nice.

I tried to walk around the open truck door. The not quite frozen rain on the ice lubricated the ground just enough to conspire to teach me about physics. I started to slide away from the truck. I experienced a moment of confusion. Why was I moving without any effort at all? The brain is a wonderful thing. It took in all the data, made some split second calculations and informed me, you're on an incline, You Dolt, do something or you're going to end up halfway to Saegertown! I made a grab for the door and just managed to catch the side of the window. My fingers slipped and I could feel the nails just scrape the textured plastic. One of them bent back and broke. I leaned over and made a last ditch attempt to get the door. One hand pinched the edge and held. But my balance was off and first one leg came off the ground as I started to whirl around, then the other slipped away as I made purchase with the first. It was a kind of wild dance. But I stayed up. I just stood there catching my breath. I was almost proud of my superior dexterity. Out of the corner of my eye I saw movement. I looked over to see the van rocking back and forth. The kids were in the back rolling around on the floor, laughing. The lady had her head in her hands and I could see her shoulders shaking. Wonderful. No really…just peachy. I bet that when they stopped to ride out the weather they never imagined that it would come with a show.

Ignore them, I thought. Every contestant is booed and cheered in the ring. Everybody is a critic. At least I'm out here doing something. They're just hiding in their van until its safe and secure to move again. I'm the one out here taking chances while they remain conscious of good choices. Okay, so that really wasn't an intelligent winning argument. Let's just clear the windshield and get out of here, I thought. I was more deliberate as I planned my next action. Making my way around the door and holding onto the truck so I didn't slide away I was able to make it to the driver side wiper.

I picked up the wiper and slammed it against the windshield. Nothing. Maybe just a little shard flew off here and there. I picked up the wiper to hit it harder the next time. Just at that moment the intermittent switch kicked on and the wiper tore out of my hand. But I was holding on just hard enough for it to torque my body weight on the slippery ice and slam me against the hood of the truck. I didn't dare look at the van. I consider the decision to not look at the van a correct choice on the road of my life. If I had, the newspapers may have reported on the bodies of a traveling family passing through on a treacherous Erie night being found on a lonely stretch of I-79. A manhunt for the killer would have ensued. Some hack would dub me the Ice Storm Killer. I would go to the State Pen as "The Iceman."

Using my anger in a more productive way, I ripped up the wiper and brought it down hard on the windshield. Bang! Bang! Bang! Ice flew everywhere. I was overcome by my need to destroy the hated ice that was making me the fool! Bang! Bang! Bang! Take that, Old Man Winter! You cannot break my indomitable spirit, You Insensitive, Uncaring Windbag! Perhaps I said more than that. I don't remember. I was in combat with meteorological patterns, seasonal climatic changes and the little cloud with the cartoon face that is always blowing a fierce wind at unsuspecting travelers. Looking at the wiper, I saw that it was now clear of all the ice and frost. I had beaten Old Man Winter. I nodded in satisfied victory. I turned my gaze and looked at the passenger side wiper. I considered the thrill of traveling to the other side of the truck and taking up siege. The ram had touched the wall. Then I said, "Aw, forget that."

I made my way back around the door and I crawled back into the truck, pulling myself up into the driver seat. I noted that Mother Nature had accomplished what no hair product could; my hair was firmly cemented in place. I backed out of my spot and put the truck in gear. Slowly the tires made traction and I rolled away from the rest-stop leaving several entertained souls who were unaware that they were lucky to be alive. I gingerly touched the top of my head and felt the brittle strands of my new hair-do. Hah, is that your worst, you Billowous Blowhard? I laugh at your mousse! I turned up the heater. Five minutes later there was water running down into my face and eyes, down my neck into my shirt, dripping everywhere. My hair was melting. The wind howled, revenge is a dish not always best served cold, mortal, sometimes it needs a little heat to make it work. The driver side windshield wiper screeched as it scratched across my line of vision. It was completely re-encrusted in ice. Each pass was a new taunt; a barometric raspberry. I knew that madness was soon upon me.

15 miles to go; it seemed an eternity. And I'm almost back to Erie. It had been one of those white-knuckle rides and I'm starting to breathe just a little easier thinking that I will actually survive the night. My hair, though still wet, was no longer dripping. I was coming up on the McKean exit. Just "2 miles" the sign informed me. But those are a very treacherous 2 miles. Northbound I-79 takes a nice right-hand dogleg down a pretty steep incline in those 2 miles. I came around the bend. Slowly, slowly, I breathed. I could feel my fingers tighten around the steering wheel. I knew that I was going to have to flex them for circulation at the bottom of the hill.

Just ahead there were yellow flashing lights. I looked and saw a tow truck on the inside breakdown. The car ahead of me started to fishtail and it slid into the next lane before it regained control. I slowed way, way down. Now I saw that there was a car in front of the tow truck. Obviously the tow truck had just it pulled out of the median. Wow, I thought, wouldn't want to be them tonight. The tow truck driver probably charged them $100 for his troubles on this slippery night; especially since he had to crawl down that steep slope in the median to hook up the chain. The car in front of the tow truck began to pull forward onto the highway. They were moving carefully. Maybe they were checking for any new noises, rattles or scrapes that would signify damage. They carefully changed lanes from the passing lane to the driving side of the road. But they were still shifting right. Then they were going into the breakdown lane. And they don't stop! They keep going right. They slip right off the road and slide down the opposite bank. The tow truck driver was standing there looking at it happen. I'm just coasting down the hill watching it happen. We passed each other just as the car disappeared from our sight. He looked at me and I looked at him. He just shrugged and got back into his truck. Out of my rearview mirror I saw the tow truck cross the road and the driver get out and go the edge of the hill and look down.

I started to count my blessings. No matter what happens to you, somebody else has it worse. The wipers screeched again as they passed. I barely noticed. The only thing which would have made my mood more grateful would be if the car which went down the bank was the van from the rest stop 11 miles behind. Oh well, I can always fantasize.