Appreciate the meaning of home

Every snowfall spawns its own stories, and what they’re like depends entirely on who you happen to talk to.

 

I had an obligation in Morton on Saturday morning. If “Morton” doesn’t mean much to you, I was headed to a teacher gathering being held in the conference rooms at the hotel associated with Jackpot Junction Casino. Almost two hours away.

 

I had signed up to be a presenter at the event months ago–probably November or so–before I realized it was the same weekend as the Sleigh and Cutter parade. I regretted I would be missing the excitement back home, but a commitment is a commitment–even when the weather forecast begins to prophesy doom–well, okay–up to 6 inches of snow.

 

I left home by 5 a.m., arriving about 7. It was dark, but I had my good friend Google Maps, and we made it there without concern. As I walked inside the conference center, I hoped aloud that the forecasters were mistaken about what was coming.

 

My training session was located in a room without windows, which allowed everything to continue as usual. It was only after a break when we all got a look outside that we realized doom had arrived. Though it hadn’t even been snowing when I came inside about 2 hours before, now the parking lot looked like a level mogul course: Rather than vehicles, the space seemed filled with mounds of snow.

 

So now that we all had seen the snow, the side comments changed from “when will the snow start” to “when will it stop.” The 20 or so of us in our session set our hopes on predictions it would stop by about 1 p.m.--roughly the same time we were scheduled to be done for the day.

 

That hope was realized. After our session, I packed together my presentation materials and looked outside. There were no daisies or butterflies, but at least I could see beyond the boundaries of the parking lot.

 

I made my way outside, shuffled through the snow between the rows of vehicles, and succeeded in identifying my car. As the four inches (it seemed like eight) of snow was brushed off my windows, it fell on top of the snow on the ground. For some reason, the snow clung to the hem of my slacks, putting a decorative little ring around my ankles.

 

After I had brushed all the windows clear, I climbed gratefully into the driver seat.

 

The first part of the drive, I have to say, was enough to inspire high blood pressure. The first few two-lane local roads had not been plowed. The only indicators of the driving lanes were ruts in the snow left by other drivers. I was uncertain where the side of the road ended and the ditch began, and when I would meet drivers coming from the opposite direction, snow would be thrown up–white airborne snow above an all-white roadway. 

 

Fortunately, only a few people were foolish or desperate enough to be out, so although nerve-wracking, it was bearable. Also fortunately, things improved vastly as I continued eastward. Not that there was any less snow, but the plows had been on the road and I was no longer uncertain whether I was driving in my own lane.

 

When I got to New Ulm, I got onto Highway 14 and began to feel mostly comfortable, though salty road spray on my windshield was definitely an irritation. I realized just how much road spray I had experienced when I arrived home and pushed at my door. It took a bit of pushing to open it–because my car was now an icy zebra. All along its sides were strips of grey road ice. My wheel wells were also so full of snow, I could hear a rubbing sound when I turned the front wheels.

 

It felt good to get inside the house, good to sit on the couch, good to close my eyes and appreciate the meaning of “home.”