Did everyone enjoy the latest round of snowstorms? No, neither did I. It has been especially difficult when it begins to melt, because I live on a gravel road, so the puddles, grit and mud has created even bigger problems. Just to challenge my abilities even more, my fellow commuter, Jodi, has just moved to a home with a new driveway, so we have been working at adding more and more ruts for her poor husband.
In spite of all our careful plans, Monday caught the majority of the area off-guard with its dumping of several inches of wet, slushy snow. I was driving, of course, so Jodi was forced to ride along and grit her teeth to keep from screaming hysterically as she tried to survive yet another hair-raising ride home.
We made it, though; we crawled all the way from Wolsey to Miller without exploring the mysteries of the ditch even once. We avoided all of the other cars crawling along and I was just beginning to relax and try to pry my fingers off the wheel when we got to Jodi’s yard.
“Park here and I’ll walk in,” she instructed when we reached the turnoff into her yard. I was glad to do so, I am pretty skilled at getting stuck, even without the snow and mud that day. I stopped, she and her daughter got out and began running through the snow towards their house.
Suddenly, Jodi stopped and turned around, looking back towards me. I’m not sure what caused her to do so, maybe it was the squealing sounds the tires were making as I was trying to back up and not getting anywhere. There I was, in the middle of her driveway, so stuck that I had plowed clear through the snow and was working on a sizable hole in the mud under it.
I did all the things I normally do when I get stuck. First, I panicked. I’m very good at that. Then I tromped on the gas, causing the tires to scream in protest and the car to keep sliding to the side. By the time Jodi had gone into the house and pulled on mud boots, and come back out, I was already making plans for spending the afternoon in the middle of her driveway, buried in mud.
“Just rock it a little,” she instructed. “I’ll try to help push.” Yeah, right, Jodi was going to push my rather large car out of a mudhole. I tried to rock it, but I believe I mentioned that I am not too skilled, so at first I couldn’t get the hang of it. Then, Jodi got in and tried to rock it out. I stood carefully to the side and managed to place myself right where the spray of the mud was coming off the tire, so I got pretty splattered.
Finally, we decided to give up. We did what any normal red-blooded American women would do. We called Jodi’s husband to come home from work and get me out of the rut. While we were waiting, Jodi said, “Let’s try it one more time. You rock it and I’ll push.”
“Jodi, you cannot push me out, don’t be ridiculous, you’ll get hurt,” I said as reasonably as I was capable of being at that point.
“Let’s just try,” she insisted. So, I got in and I admit, I was a little better at the whole rocking thing after watching her. Then a miracle happened: I backed up and she pushed and the car, evidently knowing that her husband had left his office in the middle of a workday and headed home to push it out, suddenly released itself from its comfortable hole and backed onto the road.
Now, I don’t know just how I should feel about this. I went off home with my car and me full of the mud of a very wet Monday and grateful for Jodi’s help in getting out. I did reach one conclusion, however; Jodi pushed my large Taurus out of the mudhole—I’m never going to make her mad at me!�
Stuck in the middle