Tuesday I drove toward town on slushy roads. You know, the kind of snow-melting roads desirous to fling an unsuspecting car into the woods. You mustn’t drive faster than 45 miles an hour or you’ll be ditch-bound. Four-wheel drive pickup trucks sneer as they pass your 2003 Buick Century. They leave a wake of salty spray on your windshield.
It makes you ponder past ditch episodes. Thank goodness, not many in the last several years. You recall your early years in the Upper Peninsula. How many times did your little adventuresome blue Fiestas spin around uncontrollably and land in deep snow?
There was the time you lived at Roland Lake, nigh 20 miles from town. You carried your beloved babe, the baby you would die for, in a safe car seat, heading toward grocery stores and banks. (If you believe I actually remember where I was headed–you don’t know me very well. I can’t remember where I was headed last Tuesday, but will wind the story back to this week eventually, if you’ll keep reading.)