I write, this morning, underneath welcomed streams of sunlight, burning waves of heat through an east facing window. Every year, we move a table to this location for its preferred wintertime position. The sun rises low each day and traces a brief arc across the sky–a white rainbow–which does not wane, but grows brighter and brighter and rises higher and higher as the Earth spins into spring. Sitting here in the early morning, I take shots of dayshine through squinted eyes, furrowing my forehead, smiling a little bit.

In my cold region of Earth, haunched-shouldered shiverers rush in and out of warm buildings, to and from provision providers, and often curse winter for shoveling them above and beyond and over the banks of their wits end.

Poets mine winter for its cache of symbols representing despair, loneliness, death, old age, and sad endings.

Masses of living human beings, wish the season away.

*****

I took advantage of a great and sunny day a week ago to make an excursion one hour southwest from home, to where my daughter is studying and partying her way through the university years. We had lunch together. I marveled at the snow where she lives and told her all about the snow where I live. We ate hot soup; talked about life.

After I took my daughter back to her dorm, I intended to drive directly home, but got distracted by the vast expanses of snowy hills overlooking campus. I took a detour to cruise through the views. Bright afternoon sun pulsed forth a shimmer of present day light that competed with the silence of time gone by. I snapped some photos of how it made my heart ache–wondering if I could capture on film the ghosts squeezing through the bare branches of winter’s steadfast trees.

I had told my daughter, over lunch, that the cold and snowy campus reminded me of the year I dropped out of school–finally defeated–a young woman unsure of who she was or who she could ever be. I told her about one friend I had that year–I couldn’t remember how I met the friend, nor could I recall her last name, but we used to sit together over pitchers of beers, sharing spirited conversations. Whenever I was with this friend, life wasn’t so bad and she made me feel hopeful. Had she been a real person in my life? Or had she been a Clarence “It’s-a-Wonderful-Life” kind of person just passing through?

*****

Shadows over the snowfields were growing longer, so I knew I better start driving home. I nursed lingering nostalgia with music by the Eagles, played very loud. Then, a sea of taillights spread out in front of me as soon as I hit the Massachusetts Turnpike. I was only about a half an hour from home. The traffic slowed to a standstill. I turned the music up louder. My engine temp warning light came on. I found what was left of the breakdown lane, cozied the car up against a snowbank and cut the engine. I turned down the music and called Good Sam–our auto rescue service. They said: Sorry, we aren’t authorized to tow anyone on the Pike.  I called the police. They said: There’s been a bad accident. All tow trucks are in service.

I felt a sick feeling in my gut that someone had been killed. He was only 23 years old. He was operating a tow truck and was trying to help another motorist in the breakdown lane. A passing truck hit him.

My day had been so splendid. But for this young man’s family and friends, life would never be the same again.

A long and stressful wait, in my car, began. The sun set. I crawled into the back and retrieved some of the blankets we keep in the car just in case anyone is ever stranded during wintertime. 

Emergency vehicles raced up behind me, then avoided smashing into me at the last minute as they made their way to the scene of the accident. It got colder and colder and darker and darker.

After two hours, I called the police again. I wanted to make sure they knew where I was because every time a car came into the break down lane, I braced myself for a possible collision.

I was glad I didn’t have any children or elderly people with me in the car. But I did wish for a friend. Another hour passed before a tow truck was able to get through the traffic and take me and my car off the highway. I told the tow truck driver I was so sorry to hear that someone he worked with had been killed. He complained bitterly about the behavior of other drivers. Barreling down the breakdown lane, he texted, talked on the phone, and blasted his horn as he drove at a good clip with me in the cab and my car hoisted up on the truck bed. I overheard him mention his daughter in one telephone conversation, so I made a point of asking him about his daughter and I told him I had just gone to visit mine. He still drove while texting. I closed my eyes.

He deposited me and my car in a shopping center parking lot just off the turnpike where I called my service provider to tow me home the rest of the way. The call to my service provider didn’t go well–they were overwhelmed with the accident, too. It would be a three and a half hour wait–many people had run out of gas waiting in the traffic.

My husband was out of town.

I saw a Friendly’s Restaurant one plaza north of where I was and hoped to get a restorative cup of hot cocoa. The waitress called me hon. “Are you okay, hon?” “You sit there as long as you need to, hon.” “I’m sorry your car broke down, hon.” She was so comforting–singing her own lullaby style of sweet care–that when she asked me about the hot chocolate, “I hope you liked it, hon. Was it just what you needed?” I lied, telling her it was great. But, it wasn’t. It was watery and lukewarm–a great disappointment I had no energy to care about.

The second tow truck showed up just before 10PM, driven by a young man. He was alive with energy–worked 55 hours a week doing tows and also attended college. He came to America as a 6-year-old, with his mom, from Poland, to meet up with his dad who was already living in Brooklyn. “Greenpoint?” I asked him. He said, yes. I told him my son lives in Greenpoint, right in the Polish section. I also told him my father’s family came from Poland–New York City–through Ellis Island. We talked about Poland, Polish accents, Polish food, and figuring out how to settle into the kind of life that suits you best.

By the time I got home, it was past ten o’clock. I didn’t need a drink. I couldn’t fall asleep. I stayed up for hours, unsettled by the experience of how one young man’s life could be over while the rest of us scramble to battle winter and all the dangers and pleasures it might bring.

I told my husband to make sure he has a blanket in his car and to make sure he keeps his gas tank filled. He’s like a lot of people–wonders what the chances are that something like that will ever happen. Or, if it were to happen, thinks there’s no way you could be stranded for more than six hours so close to home, or on such a major highway.

This morning–as he was making his way into the city of Boston, there was another accident on the turnpike. His wait, in standstill traffic, was only three hours. His car didn’t break down, so he had heat. He also had a few passengers to keep him company.

But, please, make sure to keep a blanket in your car if you live in a cold region of Earth. Keep the gas tank filled up as much as you can, too.

Without music, conversation, or the ability to concentrate on reading–I sat in my cold car for a long time, knowing things could be so much worse.

Repairs to my car totaled well over $1,500. We didn’t fuss about it. That winter’s day was a good one for me–I’d visited with my daughter, I’d examined memorable experiences from my past, and, I was able to tell my husband all about it, over the telephone, when I was home again in a safe and warm home.

Please. Keep a blanket in your car. And don’t wish the season away.