He managed to back out into the street, and get the car pointed the right way, but then the tires just spun endlessly. After a lot of back and forth and spinning, he managed to get the car over to the side of the road, and that's where it'll stay. I stepped out into the road to see if there was anything I could do to help, but he was already so irritable that I decided not to really bother. We came in and called our respective offices, and now we're on our computers. I wish I could telecommute today. Oh, well. Another half hour and we'll try again - some of the other people on our street have managed to get out, and the main roads are probably somewhat clearer.
I'll write more later.
Okay, I confess - it's all my fault.
On Sunday, when there was a little snow on the ground, I was gleeful. I went out in it; I played in it; I went for a walk and admired its beauty.
Yesterday at work, I looked with wonder at the delicate lacy patterns of the thin sheet of ice on top of the grass melting slowly. Strictly to myself, mind you, I thought it looked like a fairy bride had laid out her veil. (Even more strictly to myself, I thought that was nice imagery, but never mind that.) Last night on the MeadeHall, I brought on my character Zoya in the midst of taking a break from a prolonged snowball fight with a bunch of children. When Ashby told us it looked like snow for his area (near Washington, D.C., about two hundred miles from my home) I whined and wished and hoped it would come through here as well.
Yep, I got my wish, and it's all my fault.
My apologies to Matt, whose van is stuck in my snow.
My apologies to K.T., who spent two and a half hours driving almost all the way to work through my snow and having to turn around - and then finding out that the university for which she works had astonishingly closed its doors, anyway.
My apologies to Braz, who got halfway to work before discovering the bridge linking his town to the next town over was out.
My apologies to the neighbor-guy, who got so mad at his wife's car for not moving that he was pounding on it with his fist.
My apologies to the neighbor's wife, who had to put up with her very grumpy husband in addition to the two large dogs who were frenetically alternating between thinking snow was just the neatest thing they'd ever seen and wanting desperately to get into her car with her.
My apologies to everyone stuck at home, unable to go to work or school because of my snow.
And you will all know that I am suffering my just rewards: I am at work.
Around 9, I called my dad's office number to find out if he'd braved the snow in his Big Manly Truck®, and he offered to come and pick me up. Well, with practically no leave saved up, and this Friday being the last day of the pay period, and the roads probably being no better tomorrow, I couldn't really say no. So Dad came in his Big Manly Truck® (Four-wheel drive! 5400 pounds of vehicle!) and picked me up and brought me to work. And while the rest of you get to go back to bed, or watch TV, or watch the neighborhood children and animals playing in the snow, or play in the snow yourselves... I'm sitting at work, not really working because I was supposed to get an assignment today but my supervisor didn't come in... I'm sitting at work, writing this journal entry and wondering when Dad will think we've been here long enough.
The office's central manager finally gave up and declared the company closed for the day, since there were only about eight people here anyway. Once he made that declaration, half of them packed up and went home, and now we're down to four: The central manager, in the main office. Dad and one other guy in his suite. And me, in mine. (The fourth suite is empty and dark and locked, having no-one in it.) (Closed doesn't mean we can go home and get paid anyway. Closed means that we've got an extra pay period, or maybe it's 30 days, to make up the missed time.)
It's one o'clock. I've been here for four hours, and every time I look out the window, all I see is blowing snow. It doesn't seem to be getting significantly deeper, and Dad's Big Manly Truck® has only acquired the thinnest veneer of powder since we got back here, so I hope we'll still be able to leave when three o'clock rolls around - that's when Dad wants to leave. It's a very big truck, after all. With four-wheel drive. Fifty-four hundred pounds of steel isn't blown around the road like my little wimpy car is.
But maybe I can talk him into leaving at two.
Dad and I did, in fact, leave at two. Which was good, because by then we were down to just three of us, and the third guy - the guy in the same suite with Dad - did not come to work in a Big Manly Truck®, and wanted Dad to follow him out in case he got stuck. While they wrapped up their business, I called my mom to let her know Dad was on his way.
"Good," she said. "I was just thinking of calling and telling him to come home anyway."
I came home to find Matt in a foul mood. I wasn't sure exactly why until about ten minutes ago, when I read his journal entry, and it turns out that he'd taken my commenting on the neighbor-lady's inability to leave as proof that the rest of our neighbors were watching him be unable to leave. And here I had been thinking it would help him feel better by proving that he wasn't the only one who was stuck.
Too bad I hadn't figured it out earlier; I had cheerfully pointed out to him that our next-door neighbor seemed to have gotten stuck, as well. Sigh. Some days, the communication lines are just down.
About four o'clock, I was sitting on the couch reading while Matt was upstairs doing whatever he was doing, and the doorbell rang. I put down my book and scurried for the door. Who the heck would be ringing our doorbell in weather this foul?
It turned out the be the neighbor-guy. Not our next-door neighbor, but the guy on the other side of the next-door neighbor. This is the guy who works for the city cops, two cities over, and trains search-and-rescue dogs. (I'd been watching his dogs frolic in the snow earlier. When I open the door, they are standing behind him, looking tired but joyful, like kids at Christmas.) "Hello?" I say.
"Hi!" he says. He looks much younger close up. I probably could have expected that; I've met his wife briefly, and she seems to be somewhat younger than me. "I'm Matt - I live in 216!" He points back to his house. I look over his shoulder at his house, then back to him. "I have four-wheel drive," he announces. "I was wondering if you needed anything - I could take you to the store or whatever. Farm Fresh is the only place open."
I am touched. I am immediately almost certain that I don't need to be taken to the store - we'd done our grocery shopping for the week just last night, so as long as the power stays on, we're fine. But for some reason it seems rude of me to turn down his offer. "Just a minute," I say. "Let me check with my husband. Would you like to come inside?" I can tell he is tempted, but then he declines to track snow into my house. I am even further impressed. I gently close the door to keep the heat - and the cat - in, and turn to go upstairs. Matt is standing at the top of the stairs, looking down.
We agree that we don't need anything, and further agree that it was nice of him to come and ask. I opened the door back up and told neighbor-Matt that we'd just been to the store and didn't need anything, thanked him profusely for the offer, and promised to let him know if we encountered a need for transportation. When I looked out the window a minute or two later, he was working his way down the other side of the street. I wonder how far he went.
What a nice guy.
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