First published in the Chronicle and the Transcript Nov. 18, 2020
It’s been a trying time Regular Readers. And I don’t only mean because we’re both in a pandemic and a political existential crisis (maybe over by the time you read this?). But also, here in early November, we are already keenly aware that winter is coming and no one knows how to predict snow in New England.
I’m not saying meteorologists need to nail the forecast 365 days a year, but I am saying if you want to work in Boston, you might want to focus on the whole snow accumulation thing. For starters, try to differentiate between a dusting and… everything else.
I mention this because recently my husband and I were taking some stuff out of our barn in the White Whoosh, my minivan which is practically perfect in every way including its capacity to haul junk. And it was, you may recall this day, snowing. Not the predicted dusting, but rather four inches of heavy wet snow that then flash froze into a gnarly ice oatmeal all over everything.
So when I heard a crunching sound as I pulled out, I didn’t pause. Every square inch crunched when driving through the newly fallen permafrost.
“It’s just a stick in the ice.” I said, continuing forward.
“It’s not a stick!” My husband, who was seated in the passenger seat, replied in alarm.
“Yes, it is! I’m just crunching over it.”
“Back up! It’s NOT a stick, it’s one of the driveway boulders you are crunching!” He said in, let’s call it, a loudish voice.
I was sure it was a branch covered in ice, but when the headlight suddenly twisted and shot the beam into the sky, I paused. Even a large branch shouldn’t cause that to happen. And it didn’t. A boulder caused it. My husband, let the record show since this is in print, was right.
“Haven’t you memorized where all the boulders are in our driveway?” He asked in exasperation as we stared at my right bumper that was… askew. “We paid to have landscapers lay them where the lawn begins so that people would stop driving on our grass.”
I think we all know the answer to whether or not I had memorized our household boulder pattern. But the good news was, our boulders, as a deterrent to driving on the grass, were effective. Not a blade was damaged.
Later, one of the pastors I work with, was texting me about a concept he was working on. But this pastor is also an actual, for real, mechanic and speaks fluent “auto”. So as he texted about his idea, I texted back, “Fine, yes, but in other news, I ran over a boulder and mangled my bumper. What do I do? Who should I take it to?”
Who, indeed.
And so on a much less snowy morning, actually the morning after the election when we had no confirmed president, and the governor had just reinstated quarantine restrictions, and my bumper was hanging by what might be called a chad, a bit of good news came my way in my church parking lot.
My co-worker pastor got down on the ground with a set of something . . . wrenches, ratchets, miniature whisky flasks? He started manipulating the bumper while saying things like, “this is fairly common,” and, “these bumpers are plastic so it’s easy to dislodge them.” Statements that made my bouldering seem less apocalyptic and more just an unfortunate bit of misjudgment on my part. Maybe the world was falling part, but my car was not.
He opened the hood and stuck his head down behind where my headlight was.
“Be careful you don’t want to get oil or grease on your office clothes,” I said, trying to be useful.
“Please,” he said from deep within the engine, “I live for stuff like this.”
Uh huh. I just wasn’t sure whoever did the laundry would live for it. He whistled a happy little tune and was otherwise busy under the hood, while I stood in the sunlight and thought happy little thoughts about how I wouldn’t have to go to the dealership.
“OK, it’s fixed for now. You may need to buy a washer for this bolt where you ripped out the bumper,” he said giving his final verdict. “The washer will give the bumper something solid to grab on to so that it stays firm.”
I nodded, I could do that.
But, perhaps because he’s my pastor, it also felt like advice that was bigger than the car. Find something, or Someone, to grab on to so that when nothing is predictable, not elections, not snow, not viruses, we can hold on and stand firm.