andreacue

Snow fell thick across the Philadelphia region, piling lawns and cars and houses in deep powdery drifts. This happened a couple weeks back but the evidence lingered in snowbanks high as my vehicle, sidewalks slick with residual ice. The city drew battle lines for parking spaces — neighbors blocking off cleared spots with folding chairs and orange cones.

This was a practice foreign to me. What the HELL is that? I said to my sister, circling the block in search of parking. Is that a... chair? In the STREET?

She laughed at me; said to hop out of the car and move it, take the spot anyway.

Won't they key the car then? Or slash tires?

Yep, she said. Probably.

So I drove on, bitching about the AUDACITY of people who attempt to claim PUBLIC  STREET SPACE — I mean, is there no integrity? Compassion? COMMUNITY? — and put the car somewhere else.

And therein lies my greatest problem with all things winter and snow: The car.

The shrewd observer may have gleaned that my automobile falls somewhat short of desirable. A ten-year old Saturn beat down by the experience of running around with me, bumper stickers patching a medley of scrapes and scratches on the rear, missing a hubcap: That's my baby. I like to consider its appearance something akin to a built-in anti-theft system.

Woah, this car looks like shit!

(Heck yeah it does.)

In dry sunny weather with moderate temperatures, the Saturn runs like a charm. In the damp it grumbles, tosses on the Service Engine Soon light on principle. Rain makes it drive like a sled, gliding down the highway in a long controlled slide. In the snow and ice it's anyone's guess. I take the wheel and offer up a wish and a prayer, turn the key, take my chances.

Take my chances, I say — and yet, when last on the highway in the snow, I noticed how often my hands clenched the wheel, body tensing for impact. Eyes darting quick to the concrete divider to my left, the guard rail to the right. Tires slipping and catching again.

My thoughts turned toward the concept of self-protection, to moments I'd catch myself bracing for a crash. Driving the car with caution is one matter; emotional guarding is another thing entirely. But the similarities jumped to the front of my consciousness and stuck. What good does either one do, really? Preparing for the inevitable — what does that truly mean?

It's like I said to my father once: I don't really see the point in worry.

Something will happen or it won't, and, well — I'll deal with whatever it is then.

The car might hit the guard rail and smash. A person might disappoint. Something I considered a constant might fail. But... and... with any luck, life carries on.

I'd like to tell you that this awareness changed my driving style, that I no longer hug the steering wheel with panic and prayer.

Not so.

I still tense up when I feel things slipping, when something begins to drift out of my control. But this also creates a reminder to breathe, trust, let go.

— And, perhaps, to invest in snow tires next time.