Technical Drive
(Flurries from the Lincoln window)
It was an interesting technical drive on a Christmas Day. I had accomplished what I needed to do, and had a wonderful Eve with the parents, opening gifts and feeling some holiday cheer.
This had been an un-programmed visit to the Northland, and travel plans were, of necessity, cobbled together and optimized only to the convenience of the airlines.
The compromise thus involved the major airport hub at Detroit, some three hundred miles away from the little City by the Bay, and the rental car that connected the two.
Anxiety set in early; the snow had been falling relentlessly for days, and travel in town had been harrowing even for a place that takes the harsh winter by the lake in stride most times.
Dad was a Navy pilot in his time, and a driver of great precision. He instilled a rigor to our training that combined high performance and a fundamental understanding of efficiency and basic physics. His children were all accomplished technical drivers under all weather conditions, something that was useful in a state where ice and snow can come nearly half the year, and schedules must be kept.
It was deep dark as I was cleaning off the rental Lincoln from the lake-effect snow that had fallen overnight when the snow-plow guy showed up in the driveway, per his contract.
I waved to him with the scraper and he rolled down the window on the black 4X4 truck. I asked him what the roads were like. His face appeared in the darkness, a cap and wild tangled beard. “Ok,” he said, “but out in the country there are deep drifts. You’ll have to watch that. First thing they cut in the budget in the big downturn was snow removal.”
I asked him what he thought about heading downstate to the flatlands and Detroit airport, and he said four words as his window started up: “Leave early. Good luck.”
All that snow made me think this might be a time-consuming technical drive. After a glass of juice with the folks, I was getting antsy to be on the road. I reminded them that there were spaghetti and meatballs and a macaroni and cheese casserole and a ham and German potato salad and several frozen entrees to eat.
I backed the car out and waved to them out of the lowered drivers side window as I negotiated the driveway and drove around the hospital complex with the gigantic illuminated Santa that glowers across the bay to connect with the main road.
It being Christmas morning, the main drag out of town was predictably quiet except for a few private plows going about their early rounds.
M-31 southbound heads up the steep bluff above the Bay. The Lincoln fishtailed in the heavy packed snow, and I thought I might be in for a long morning. It was deep dark at 0615- hitting the high-beams didn’t make much difference, since the snow flurries reflected back in dazzling white, but the low-beams just disappeared into the darkness, all the light sucked right out of the car and into the winter night that would not let go.
There were tire-tracks to follow, black grooves in the white, and periodically lights crossing the road up ahead as farmers and winter sports enthusiasts plowed up driveways. No other traffic headed south, and I made pretty good time down through Boyne Falls to the turn-off to M-32, which cuts east to connect to Interstate 75.
The Lincoln had a GPS navigation system, which is a novelty whose voice breaks the silence, and Sirius Satellite Radio, which has smut and profanity (Howard Stern and the Cosmo channels) and Martha Stewart Living. I also found a Bing Crosby Christmas channel, and so Der Bingle kept me company from the distance of his holiday shows of 1943, ‘46, ‘48, ‘50 and ‘55.
I don’t know where ’44 and ’45 were. Maybe copyright problems.
The voice from the navigation box told me about the left turn onto M-32 in plenty of time, and the brakes worked well enough to slow down for the big swerve.
They had not bothered to plow the road to Elmira, nor the ten miles beyond it, past the cabin we owned at Martin Lake. Mom had reminded me of the Christmas Day we left Detroit to take possession of the place, in 1965, dragging a trailer with mattresses across the snow-covered empty highway.
I glanced at the access road as the town car slid through the ess-turns between our lake and the more majestic Lake 27 over the hill.
That part of Michigan is above the 45th parallel, and the signs that reflect in the headlights point out that you are more than halfway to the Pole from the equator. That far north, and that far west in the Eastern Time zone, the dawn comes late. In the dark I missed the turn onto the interstate, since the snow was piled steep and high in the narrow cut the lead to the on-ramp.
I have turned on there hundreds of times, so it was a little disconcerting not to recognize it in the frozen dark.
“Recalculating route,” said the voice from the dashboard, and I looked ahead and in the mirrors. There was nothing coming in either direction, so I kicked the gas and threw the wheel over to the left, throwing the sedan in a stately drifting u-turn across four lanes to return to the entrance.
The interstate was snow-covered down to Lake Helen in Roscommon County, but there were only a few other cars, and it was easy to keep the vehicle in motion without much regard for precision. Bing sang all the songs we know and some that are gone from the public canon.
The last of the lake effect snow passed behind at West Branch, and things cleaned up for a while at Pinconning. Then I arrived at the junction between the front that had dumped snow on the west and sleet on the east, and the road became white concrete glazed with a thin sheet of ice.
The steering wheel had that absence of texture that said it was only inertia that was keeping the car going in a straight line. The right lane had some salt on it, and periodically the left lane was passable. There was increasing traffic as the light came up, some moving very slowly with Christmas presents stacked up in the back windows, throwing an irritating salt mist that darkened the windshield.
Passing was a delicate maneuver, easing across the harder ice to get into the left lane, settling in, gently increasing speed to ease by, then blinker flashing, slowly cross back to the right lane and traction again.
The majestic Zilwaukee Bridge north of Saginaw was ice across all eight lanes. Spectacular.
South of Flint, on US-23, the sun came out and the ice miraculously went away. I could cease having to drive so intently, and just let the car go where the nose pointed, just like here in Virginia, where no one particularly pays attention to what they are doing.
I was able to think back on the events of the week as I drove, and one memory struck me with particular clarity and very profound.
I slept in the main house this visit, to be close in case I was needed. Normally, I stay in the Big Top, the apartment over the three-car garage, which give me independence to come and go and the ability to play the radio, which can be a distraction in the main house.
I cooked and cleaned up all the meals to let Mom relax a little. Mom has her routine, and likes to watch “Jeopardy” after dinner.
After getting everything washed up and hosed down, I came into the living room to hear Alex Trebek asking the Final Jeopardy question, and see Mom and Dad on the couch. Dad had his arms around her, and Mom snuggled up to his chest. For more than sixty years they have been together, through mostly good times, and now in their mid-80s, their love and dependence on one another is stronger than ever.
Even with all the problems, both were asleep, entwined in one another.
It was the sweetest thing I have ever seen, an affirmation of the best of the human condition, and tears came to me unbidden. Would that we all could be so lucky.
I stopped near the airport to top off the gas tank on the Lincoln, marveling that the fuel burned from Petoskey cost just about $20 bucks each way. I thanked the navigation system when it informed me that I have reached my destination. I also thanked Mr. Crosby for the holiday spirit and gave the keys to the lady who produced a receipt from the computer on her belt.
Security was a breeze, and there was an earlier flight posted on the board when I checked the departure monitors. Detroit has a brand new air terminal, state of the art, and is the hub between Tokyo and North America for Northwest Airlines. There was no one there in the sparkling long corridors. When I walked up to the gate, there were agents next to the open door to the jetway.
I asked if there was a seat available, and they said they had a whole row.
I walked on, they closed the cabin door and we were up and down and I was back on the ground at Reagan National an hour and a half after dropping the car.
When I got to my own car parked in the garage, the weather was nice enough to put the top down for the drive back to Big Pink. In my winter parka, the Virginia breeze was pleasant, and with the pavement dry, there was no need for technical skills at all.
Copyright 2008 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com