So last night we were coming into Ohio in a snowstorm. Not a horrifically intense one as Ohio snowstorms go, but respectable. Unfortunately, it occurred on a Sunday night, and Sunday night storms mean there will not even be an attempt to salt or plow the roads until Monday morning, and everything gets extremely treacherous.
Somewhere in there, justbeast
lost control of the car and we spun out on the freeway, across all lanes, coming to a stop about six inches from the guardrail, facing the wrong direction.
We're ok, the car is fine. justbeast
did extremely well in a crisis, as we were originally headed right into the divider and a huge snowdrift, and he pulled us out, leading into the spin, but stopped us short of the rail and no cars, thankfully, were near us.
But it was eerie, in total silence, in the snow, spinning out of control, that awful thing you hope will never happen, bracing all your muscles for impact, teeth clenched, and not a whole lot you can do but hope your life is charmed.
This actually happened to me once before, though not in the snow. When I was in Greece with a friend whose father was a race-car driver, and he, frustrated with my granny-careful driving, got behind the wheel and took a turn at midnight near Kalamata at about 50 miles an our, and we spun out, hurtling across the freeway, ending up with our nose very nearly over the cliffside, facing the very dark and deep Meditteranean.
Probably not helped by having just read and been deeply affected by Lucius Shephard's new novelette The Dog-Eared Paperback of My Life
, I considered after our snowy brush (and after the one in Greece, honestly) that there is an alternate universe or thousand in which I did not walk away from one or the other of those. There was an oncoming truck, or we slammed into the guardrail, or, or, or.
But we aintn't dead yet, and are safe in Cleveland in the warm with a wood stove and a small Jack Russell terrier and a whole lot of snow. It doesn't look like many people are available this week, so I suppose I'll be mostly keeping to myself. And eating a lot of Russian food and knitting and working on the Prester John book.
One little anecdote: I showed several of the wedding folk this picture
's father at age 18, (you must click this), which is just crazily Clint Eastwood-style awesome. Today, I found out that when that picture was taken, he was living in Kazakhstan working for the government investigating corruption in weights and measures and spending his spare time KNITTING.
That's right. That guy. With the cigar. KNITTING.
Words cannot express. I present this as a gift to all those awesome guys who knit and have been mocked for doing so.