Notes from the belly of the great snow beast on the eve of New Year's Eve

So as to not worry our next of kin: This post is a fictionalized account of some actual events. We're perfectly safe, warm, well fed and watered. Oh, and certain events were probably altered to make the author appear to be more wise and witty than he is in actual reality… at least according to "She-of-the-South."

Santa Fe, New Mexico, 7,000 feet altitude:

It is nearly suppertime on the third or fourth day of the freak storm, which has buried us in 27 inches of snow. Interstate 25 is impassable and closed. Food supplies are running low. Cabin fever is running high.

She: Could you stoke the fire?
Me: We're running low on firewood.

Begrudgingly, I throw on a log, and check the refrigerator. It is nearly empty, and I notice the last beer is MIA; I kick myself for being a slow drinker as I realize She-of-the-South has beaten me to it. Same story for the pinot noir, which ran out two days ago, and the crackers and cheese, yesterday. Pretty soon we'll have to break into the champagne we were saving for New Year's Eve, tomorrow.

She: Could you thaw out some salmon for supper?
Me: There's no time for that. How about some mushroom dip and chocolate chip cookies?
She: I ate those while you were napping in front of the fire.
Me: That explains the crumbs in the sink, and the second degree burns on my face.
She: What?
Me: How about some champagne?
She: Um, you'll need to go to the store—here's the list.

Begrudgingly, I throw on my boots and ski jacket, and trudge down the buried stairs to the buried street along the thin path created in waist-deep snow by dog-walking neighbors, and encounter my buried Pontiac Grand Am. I do not own a snow shovel, and it is obvious none of the neighbors do either. I check the other vehicle. She-of-the-South owns a Jeep Cherokee, which is perpetually low on gas and has only two-wheel drive—but it does have a higher wheel base and is slightly less buried.

The evening temperature is 23 degrees Fahrenheit. The streets are icy and vaguely defined. It will be a brutal and dangerous trip, and I'll have to gun a Jeep out of a snowdrift.

Cool.

Thirty minutes later, I've managed to get the Jeep stuck on the ice right outside my house, spinning the wheels. My cell phone rings, Sometimes You Can't Make It On Your Own by U2. I briefly register the irony.

She: Where are you?
Me: In your Jeep on the way to the store, sweetie.
She: Why didn't you walk? It's only two blocks.
Me: Couldn't. The snowdrifts are six feet deep in the arroyo.
She: Buy some chocolate stuff.
Me: Is it on the list?
She: No. You can add to the list, you know.
Me: Okay, chocolate.
She: And get more food.
Me: Okay, more food. And chocolate.

A burly dog-walking neighbor helps me push the Jeep onto some semblance of traction and I slide away to Albertson's. There are about twenty SUVs in the parking lot, all of them four-wheel drive. Wimps.

Inside the store, I take a look at the grocery list: White wine; champagne; Newcastle Brown Ale; Gouda cheese; crackers. That's it? Too funny. I'll have to add to the list. I load up my cart with spaghetti and sauces, frozen shrimp skillet meals, cheese, crackers, and booze. Lots of booze. Booze, in fact, seems to be everybody's most popular item in the check-out lane this evening.

You can't make it on your own.

She: Don't forget the chocolate.
Me: Of course not, sweetie.

Begrudgingly, I throw some luscious-looking brownie mix into my bag, and head for home. The only vehicles I see on the shiny ice are Hummers, police cruisers, and fire trucks. The two block drive takes thirty minutes, and as I approach my parking space I misjudge the angle and plow into a snowdrift, partially blocking the road again. I spin my wheels and the not-snow-tires sink deeper into the ice and snow.

Not-quite-home again, jiggety jig! I use the speed dial on my cell:

She: What is taking so long? The fire went out. Are you okay?
Me: Hi Sweetie. I think I can get the Jeep off the street if you'll toss down the claw hammer so I can break up the ice behind the wheels.

She throws the hammer over the balcony into four feet of snow in the shadows. I swim into the drift, desperately searching for it. No such luck. The beastly snowbank swallows me whole, and I begin a curse-laden rant having something to do with how She-from-the-South throws like a girl!

It's very cold now, and my feet and hands are beginning to tingle. The Jeep, which I left running, coughs and dies.

Miraculously, another kindly neighbor pulls up in his burly SUV and offers to help me move the Jeep. He says he has some spare gas in a can. His vehicle is properly equipped for the weather, and he is as happy as a white fox in winter as he shows me how to attach his brand new tow-rope to the frame. After the job is done, I shake his hand, and She-from-the-South says thank you from the balcony.

I realize I forgot to buy a shovel while at the store, and by the time the snow melts next Spring, my claw hammer will be a rusted artifact of these events.

Begrudgingly, I throw the grocery bags over my shoulder and head up the snow-covered stairs. My foot slips, and the bag with the wine begins to get away from me. Somehow, I fabulously fling the wine to the top step, with no breakage, just at the feet of She-from-the-South.

She: Don't worry, I saved the wine.
Me: Nice catch. Your pitching needs work, though.
She: You were gone so long, I thawed the salmon and made you dinner.
Me: I'll make brownies for dessert.
She: Chocolate! A nice surprise.
Me: Thought you'd like that.
She: You know, the weatherman says we should stay home for a couple more days.

Begrudgingly, I kiss her, for auld lang syne.

--RAC