Something happens to men when they move from the city to the country. They start wanting things. They get rain jackets for fly fishing that would get them through a monsoon. Then they collect an assortment of hats. There are ski hats, and helmets with goggles, there are other hats for sledding, and then for rainy days there are these Raiders of the Lost Ark things that probably came from J. Peterman. Next come the boots. There are lots of these. There are winter boots, and mud boots, and just knocking around, ‘I am man’, boots. Eventually, if you aren’t really careful, they start wanting to buy a truck.
The other day we had one of those ice storms we’re known for up here and my husband, the city guy with lots of boots, ran the car off of our driveway and sort of into the garden. He knew just what to do though. He came in and changed his boots. Then he went back out with a shovel assuring me that he’d have it in just a little while. The next time he got behind the wheel, the car dipped over it’s rather precarious edge more firmly into the garden. He came into the house and I suggested we call a tow truck. Nah, he almost had it now. He headed back out with a bag of kitty litter thrown over his shoulder and another shovel in his hands. I swear he changed boots again, but he denies this. You could smell the burning rubber and hear the horrible screeching sound tires make when they are firmly planted on the ice and digging fast through snow down to mud. We’d had a warm day with bunch of rain, followed by a day with sleet and temps dipping into the teens. Then it snowed on top of that and we had essentially a thick cottony blanket over an ice hockey rink where our driveway used to be.
So I really thought calling a tow truck was the right thing to do But John was equally certain that by freeing only one more tire, this car was going to be restored back onto the driveway and we would be on our belated way.
He dug, he sweated, he sprinkled kitty litter…(kitty litter, I ask you??!!), in all the right places and took his seat behind the wheel. The engine roared to life, and the car, without missing a beat, slid smoothly down the embankment, through the rock garden, and crashed prettily into the picket fence which it dragged alongside, until it stopped rather picturesquely right in front of the chicken house.
John got out and suggested we call a tow truck…I blame the boots