Thursday, February 07, 2008

Regional Considerations

I put on my boots, jacket, parka, hat and gloves, shouldered my computer bag and daypack and trudged through the snow to my car.

At the car I brushed away what I could from the passenger's side door, chipped the ice away from the lock, unlocked the door and yanked on it to break it loose, because it had frozen shut during the snowy day.

I put my bags on the seat and reached through to start the engine. I turned on the lights and the front and rear defrosters. Then I pulled my shovel and scraper out. With the shovel I pushed off the loose snow and broke loose some thicker crusty deposits left over from several days of mixed frozen precipitation. Following that I made another lap around the vehicle to scrape the ice off the windows.

After tossing the shovel and scraper back into the car, I went to the driver's door. It was so solidly frozen shut that I feared I would damage the handle if I continued to yank. I went back around to the passenger's side, leaned through and punched the driver's door open from inside. Then I went back around to climb into the driver's seat. There I pulled off my wet gloves and started to laugh.

The only time someone living in the south goes through this much bullshit just to go somewhere in the car is when he's to drunk to get the key into the door lock or the car is buried in tornado debris.

We go to a lot of trouble to live up here. And it doesn't even keep the riffraff out. We just have our own variety.

I made it to Route 16 just in time to settle back and enjoy the spectacle of a frantic Masshole desperately jockeying to pass a state plow truck. He finally made it, double yellow line and all, leaving me directly behind the truck to enjoy the seizure-inducing strobe lights and the fountain of sparks coming off the wing plow like a private fireworks display. I would have liked to go faster, but I could see the plow driver had a reason to dump salt and sand on the black ice ribbons on the pavement. Why act like an ass for a few miles per hour when I might get out there and wish I'd waited for some traction assistance? I pushed in some tunes and enjoyed the light show. The headlights of a desperate man filled the rear view mirror.

The plow eventually turned off. The guy behind me was so happy he passed me on the right and ran a red light as if it wasn't there.

Just another evening commute in snow country.

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