Sliding Home

ACCIDENTALLY

 

I can feel the cold in my sleep. I twist and turn, try to cover myself more warmly with the comfy flowered quilt my mom and dad gave me for my birthday in November. Where the devil is that quilt? Damn, it's laying on the cold floor. Nothing I can do about it except get out of bed, pick it up, spread it tighter on the bed and crawl under it until morning.

 

As long as I'm up, I glance out the window and can't tell if its morning or still night. I hear the roar of the north wind, focus on the line of trees along the street and see the promised snow coming down in slanted sheets. A loud, 'Yeow!' flies out of my throat. Oh, my god, we're going to be buried alive, house and all, if this snow doesn't let up.

 

I turn on the t.v., channel 58, to prove to myself that I am not insane. Mary McCormick, wearing a silky dress, bare shoulder and a red Santa Claus hat on her head, lets me know it is 5 a.m. and the temperature is 32 with north winds 35 mph. All schools will be closed in the morning. The storm is expected to lessen by noon. I take note of 'expected' don't know which 'noon' she means.

 

Dad and Mom must be dead to the world. They evidently don't hear me re-make my bed or turn on the t.v. Dad snores a little but not enough for Mom to complain to me. At 5:05 I am back in bed and why not? There's no place to go for a few days no matter what time I start my day. Maybe it's mental but my quilt just isn't warm enough. That's when I realize the heat isn't running. Knowing nothing whatsoever about the machinations of turning it on, I simply choose to put on a pair of faded old style aerobic socks and stretch them up to my knees. Not enough. Over my pajamas I add a sweater, put my pillow over my head and manage to curl up into a ball.

 

Somehow I guess my eyes closed themselves because I didn't see daylight arrive, but it has. Stepping onto the wooden floor, I realize it is not as icy as it was. Fully dressed in my night time attire, I go downstairs to make a cup or two of hot chocolate for myself. Criminee! Mom is already there, perking coffee. We see each other. Only she shrieks, 'My god, Daughter. The circus won't be in town for months. Are you going to wear that clown outfit you slept in when it comes?' I look myself over and realize how silly I look. 'Sorry, Mom ,' The house was so cold and my picturing us all encased in ice, I needed every ounce of what I am wearing.' 'So, why didn't you turn the heat higher? Dad and I snuggled close all thru the blizzard and weren't cold at all.'

 

'Good question, Mom. I've never even looked at the AC or heat unit. You and Dad take care of everything for me and I didn't want to wake you to do it.' My explanation is not satisfactory. She takes me by my hand as if I were ten years old again and gives me a lesson on the simplest of gadgets. The room temperature is now 68 and has a way to go before I take off my clown outfit.

 

Snowflakes flutter down. The tree branches must have been too heavy to hold the wet snow and are almost bare. The sun seems to be merely a fuzzy blur but it is welcome. There is no traffic on our street. The paper boy has made no footprints to our door. Not a single bulldozer to clear the street is anywhere around here. Therefore, ergo: neither I nor Dad can go to work. Mom will find plenty of odds and ends for me to do. My second cup of hot cocoa is empty. I wash my cup, throw the empty packet in the trash and go check on Mary and her weather prediction. Egads! Mary is not there. No one is. Evidently thru the miracle of electronics from another state, I can tell my Mom that schools are closed until further notice, that snow clearing has begun. Roads are icy. Do not drive unless necessary.'

 

The day is dull enough for me to play Solitare, straighten a drawer or two. If the morning paper came, Joey's footprints have been obliterated and I see no sign of them dissolving in the snow. I re-read parts of an old favorite book of mine, Jane Eyre, and live again with Jane. By two p.m. Dad, Mom and I are watching for our mailbox flag to signal we have mail. Is mail in it or, is the flag frozen, or has our mailman been unable to deliver no matter the postal oath, 'neither dark nor sleet, nor storm of night shall keep us from our task.'

 

At five-ten p.m. when the little sun shine we had has totally left the sky, loud thumping sounds come from the steps to our house. I am the first to investigate what it might be. There is our mailman holding a few pieces of mail. 'Want to come in for a few minutes, warm up, have a cup of coffee?,' I ask. There is a bit of hesitation on his part but he accepts, steps into the foyer and puts his almost empty sack on the floor. Unfortunately, he slips and falls, saved from too much harm, by his heavy jacket and corduroy pants. He does not want my help as he tries to stand but I give it anyhow.

 

Mom has coffee waiting for him on the kitchen table. 'Take off your jacket, give the cold a chance to warm up,' I suggest. He does and we chat for fifteen minutes. He's edgy, must go. With only two more stops to make, I invite him back to have dinner with us. He knows my name, I know his and I have a gut feeling his ' accidental' fall is only the beginning of a beautiful friendship.

 

I whisper a silent prayer to whoever may be listening,' Please let it snow hard again tomorrow.'