The SWMBO has still not recovered completely from her ordeal; she has had no reference point, set point when drilling, of the damage stress can do. Bit by bit she’s remembering events that were before just muddled together.
The last twelve miles (7 hours) of her twenty-five mile journey, is on Hwy 92; beginning in Roswell, passing through Alpharetta, Marietta and home in Woodstock. It’s well lite four lanes of blacktop were lightly covered with snow but in the 15 degree weather, there was more than enough ice to make up for the lack of snow.
Some of the drivers, in the literally thousands of cars, on that stretch of Hwy 92, just gave up and walked away, leaving their vehicles where they were. Cyd heard the slamming of the doors and the crunching of their footsteps as broke through the icy crust of the snowy sidewalk.
And then she heard the sounds of ATVs and an army of shopping carts; vehicles driven, pushed or dragged by men, women, boys and girls…no flags or banners declaring their membership in any congregation, organization or society; they were not organized in any discernible way other than a desire to help (read that ‘glow with a magnificent love’).
Everyone, anyone was offered, water, food; some had coffee, another hot chocolate; kitty litter for spinning tires, and axes to break up ice ahead.
For those last twelve miles all seven hours of it, the SWMBO was escorted by a sea of faces, walking up and down a Highway on a frozen night in Georgia.
She swears that she doesn’t remember seeing any wings among them…but she knows in her ‘knower’, they were there.
The following morning.
The thermometer had not risen above 20 degrees and thanks to the shortsightedness of the individuals that had purchased the model homes in the subdivision; short sighted in so much as they forgot to turn off their irrigation pumps, the entrance to the subdivision and three quarters of hill after were covered in ice.
No one was leaving their homes, well not the adults…not by car. The privileged few children that own snow discs were giddy with delight as they claimed all roads, lawns and frozen gutters as their own.
Now here is where I must apologize to today’s youth. I have seen them with their electronic devices, glued to TV sets and I had judged them as lacking any real imagination. I was oh so wrong. The young ones that slide past their less fortunate peers did so only once…I had to laugh as I watched in awe as lids to storage boxes out numbered and out paced the pricier discs.
The last entry in this contest of ad hoc racers set me off with the kind of laughter that hurts the sides and the face and goes on and on and on…an eight year girl, lives five doors up went whizzing past our yard in a laundry basket. She masterfully guided her craft by leaning left or right, hands on the sides, using the lift of an ice covered curb to gain more speed…like a F1 driver is deftly maneuvered between and past her opponents.
“See, that’s what a girl can do!” She said as she placed the laundry basket over her head and started back up the hill. I could hear the boys talking among themselves as passed the house, “Ya know, I ready to get back to school now.”