After a week of getting used to the snow, I have grown a little cocky.  Maybe this arrogance could be attributed to growing up in a cold climate.  Maybe it is something buried deep in my Scandinavian ancestry.  Most likely however it is just me getting used to the snow and as a result growing less cautious.  Today, this overconfidence bit me in the behind or rather came up quickly from behind.

I saw the boys off to school and figured I could run out quick to return some books to the library, before the heater repair man arrived.  Carrying my coffee in its open cup, I figured I would invite our dog Kirby on the adventure.  Why not share the joy of an errand with a fellow resident of the chilly North?  Kirby jumped into the car, I quickly exited the garage, raced down the driveway’s thirty feet, still traveling backwards swerved into the alley, and anticipated my landing on the street.  Instead, however, my car stopped with a soft thud.  No backup warning signal, no slam of impact, just sort of a reluctant stop.  I had landed in a snowdrift on the side of the alley.  The largest kind of snowdrift that could somehow fit under a car bumper, a worthy wintery adversary that had halted my progress before it began.  Alternating between drive and reverse, I could not break free.  I was caught in the snowdrift’s grip at the end of our driveway.  Freedom just feet away, I was stuck.

Hollywood’s interpretation of my winter adversary, the snow drift.

My arrogance had also prevented me from stocking my car with a shovel or salt, so I needed to shamefully walk the thirty feet back to our garage.  I was pitiful and unworthy of any winter warrior status.  Shoveling out my car and applying salt around the tires, my dog ran around the inside of the car, trying to figure out why our trip was so short and why I was so stupid.  With each step of my pup, he came close to stepping in my open coffee mug.  He was courting disaster, even as I tried to free us from winter’s embarrassing grasp.

Climbing back into the car, I gunned the engine.  Forward and then back, forward and then back.  The wheels spun.  A billow of shameful grey exhaust drifted across the road, a testament to my struggles and idiocy.  Finally, the tires took hold.  Salt sprayed behind the car and we lurched forward, free of our shameful prison.  Free of my wintery wake up call.