Page 8 of Townshipped
A momentary panic washes over me. I’m alone in the middle of Ohio without my ID, credit cards, or cash with the exception of the few dollars I tossed in the center console yesterday.
I’ve got this. I’ll just turn around. I’d use Bluetooth, but I’m driving Diego’s car, so my phone isn’t connected.
There’s a strong chance Donna stowed my wallet somewhere safe. Besides, what’s an adventure without a little hardship in the mix? This will make a great story to tell when I get back.
A sign on the highway saysBordeaux Two Miles. Icons for food, gas, and shelter hang under the sign. I’ll just pull off and call the Cracker Barrel to make sure they have my wallet. Hopefully, I can use the restroom and get a coffee in this little town. Then I’ll backtrack two hours and retrieve my wallet, assuming they have it.
Think positive,I tell myself.
I’ll be reunited with my wallet in a few hours.
What would Thelma do?
Scratch that last question. Thelma would rob a store or accidentally shoot someone.
The road into Bordeaux has another small sign sayingWelcome to Bordeaux, Population 2587. Otherwise, the sprawling rural landscape is dotted with ranches, pastures, and cornfields covered with some fresh and some end-of-the-season patches of dirty snow here and there, typical for the end of February. The road I’m on should take me straight to a gas station according to the sign at the freeway exit.
The next sign I see is a yellow metal square with a black icon of a cow. A car tilts up as if it’s driving over the cow. The caption on another metal sign below the cow picture reads,Caution: Cows. Don’t Say We Didn’t Warn You.
I start to laugh, but then the clouds off in the distance turn gray and grow in size.
The next few events happen in such rapid succession, I almost can’t relay them in order. The gray cloud expands to fill the sky like something out of an apocalyptic movie.
At first, snow falls gently in a light flurry. I’ve driven in many snowstorms. I’m from Boston, after all. Inclement weather isn’t new to me. But, within moments, the countryside darkens and then everything is coated in an eerie white-gray fog.
The increased snowfall eclipses my view of the road. Visibility is near zero as if I’m driving through an actual cloud bank.
I know what I’m up against. It’s a snow squall. I need to pull over, but I can’t make sense of where the road shoulders or where it would be safe to park. I can’t see a thing. The wind presses against my car making a howling sound and stirring up the flakes as they fall.
Leave it to me to be on an unfamiliar country road with no lighting or signage—except that strange cow sign—when a snow squall hits full force.
I follow what I think is the road, but, without warning, the surface becomes slick with black ice. My car twists, and when I tap the brake, I fishtail. I right the car, but it hits some sort of ramp or ledge and flies forward, doing aDukes of Hazzardleap into the air like I’m the main event in a monster truck show. The last thing I hear is a loud crashing sound as my head whips forward.
4
AIDEN
The weather service predicted a possible storm. Sometimes we get these late winter squalls or even, depending on the year, a full-blown blizzard can hit at the end of February or early March. I head out to check on the goats and Lily. They have a snow shelter, but I want to ensure their access to food and water in case the weather prevents me from coming out here later today.
The sky shifts in an instant, turning gray with mounting clouds. I finish my rounds quickly. Before I know it, I’m standing in a foggy mist with swirling snow falling around me. I shut the gate to the goat pasture and turn to head back toward my house. Thankfully, I’d know the way with my eyes closed.
I’m almost to my porch when the distinct crunch of metal rings through the air. I stand still. I can’t see well, but I probably should make my way toward the sound. The cloudiness is already starting to lift, typical for a squall. These types of storms blow out as fast as they come. Still, the snow continues to fall rapidly.
I can see my house now even though everything appears blurred through the flurries and fog. I start walking down my driveway to check out whatever happened. I hope no one was out driving in this mess, but knowing farmers around here, we sometimes think of ourselves as capable of outwitting the elements. Our hubris comes from working the land and surviving years of whatever Mother Nature tosses our way.
On one hand, we’re acutely aware of how small we are, and yet we simultaneously feel as though we can outwit and muscle through anything. That kind of overconfidence might lead one of us to take a trip into town when it’s better advised to batten down and wait until the roads are cleared.
As I walk, the fogginess lifts even more. It’s still snowing, but I have a view all the way to the main road now. That’s when I see it: a car crunched into the tree where my driveway meets the main road. And it’s not a car I recognize either.
I pick up my pace, lightly jogging down the snow-covered gravel until I come to the crumpled car. Peering into the front window, I can make out the driver. She’s slumped forward and possibly bleeding. I try the door. It’s unlocked and comes open easily.
I say the first thing that comes to mind. “Are you okay?”
Obviously, she’s not okay.
My training as a volunteer firefighter for our town helped provide me with a rudimentary knowledge of first aid. I consider leaving her here in case she has bigger injuries than I can see. But the temperatures are dropping, and snow is continuing to fall.
Who is she and what is she doing on the road heading to Bordeaux in the middle of a storm like this? Answers will have to wait.
