The snow continues to fall and our window for escaping my in-laws is closing.
Cleveland is known for lake effect snow. As freezing air moves across a warm body of water – in this case, Lake Erie – the lower layers of the air pick up the lake’s water vapor. As the vapor rises, it freezes, and is deposited, as virgin snow, on the downwind shores.
The deep powder would bury the city and all activity would cease as Ohioans huddle in the comfort of their homes – the blindingly white mounds outside growing and silencing the city. A newly fallen snow, in its undisturbed feathery powder, dampens sound waves by absorbing them.
White, dazzling, muted. Flakes, drifting down, one after another, to land, softly, clinging to the ground, clinging to each other, weaving a fabric of chilled crystals. What started out light becomes heavy. A snowflake caught on the tip of your tongue. A shovel weighed down with each scoop from a walkway.
Sometimes snowflakes look to be falling in slow motion, as if hesitant to hit the ground.
I free fall backwards to make a perfect snow angel but my trust fall lacks trust and instead my backend hits first resulting in a bottom-heavy angel. Jim laughs. I will do this again later in life in a snowbank in Washington State and my new husband, Kyle, will also laugh.
The snow creates a slick road. This thing of beauty teases the wheels of cars right into the ditch. The city is hunkered down. To stay in is synonymous with staying safe.
I once read of a father who tucked his beloved son safely in their vehicle steps away from his home while the father shoveled the drive. He had the car running to keep his offspring warm as the child watched his father rhythmically scoop and toss, shovel after shovel. The car was parked against a snowbank, quietly filling with carbon monoxide, its exhaust pipe blocked by snow. In what should have been a casual memory of a young boy watching his dad became a nightmare of grief and regret as a father lost his child on the biggest snowfall of the year. Stay safe. Stay indoors.
My small blue Toyota Tercel hatchback, with the hole in the passenger side floor, is not snow worthy. No all-wheel drive, no snow tires, no chains, no SUV confidence. We travel cautiously, well below the speed limit, raising our eyebrows at proper winter vehicles, nose down in ditches. Had we a cell phone, his mother would have been imploring us to turn around, to go back to Cleveland, back to their home, back to safety.
The two men I have married – ten years apart, first as a young woman and then as a young mother – bring to the partnership an ability to drive in snow. Their Midwest roots have provided them with a skill set I lack. One is dead and one is alive.
We wonder at the silence of the interstate, our little dark darting automobile the only one amidst the mute landscape. As if the plague has come and gone in the two hours since we’ve been on the road. It is both eerie and exhilarating. Once we arrive back home in Chicago, we learn that the freeway had been closed just after we drove on, making us the lone vehicle in our 346-mile trip. But even as we drove, we knew there was something special happening. When the tires slipped on the ice, and the steering wheel would pull in one direction, Jim would gently guide us back, over and over, patiently working with the hardened vapor.
My two husbands. These quiet men. There is safety in their silence. They tread softly – neither boisterous or heavy in voice or body. Yet their presence is solid, they keep me tethered, safely, to the present, my predilection being a deep lean forward toward the future. They keep me safe, they keep my falls cushioned. When we slip off track, it is easy to readjust our course – it’s a conversation, a hug, an inside joke.
They are my antidote…calming, beautiful, muted. They have light spirits, yet heavy grounding, to calm the racing of my mind so that I can see and feel awe at the nature around me. So that I can find my voice and hear my words.