It was Christmas Eve, 1983. According to my Grandmother, God rest her soul, my parents and I never really tried to drive to her house that day. Mary Buffer was an aging Italian, simplistic, semi-superstitious, religiously devout woman. She was from the old country, whataya want?
We had indeed set out for Chicago that morning, but I was, despite 19 years of my dad’s instruction, wearing the wrong shoes. With a wind chill factor of 70 degrees below zero, I left Central Ohio in my little pink and white canvas Tretorns. I’d spent the last year and a half at Florida State University, so when the sun shone out my window, I reached for my tennies. Besides, I was an “adult” now and more than a bit miffed that my three older brothers escaped confinement in a small car with my parents for the next six hours. There I was, alone in the backseat, experiencing debilitating flashbacks of childhood. Meanwhile, they had free reign at home, with some lame excuses about having jobs.
Ever since we were babies, traveling to Chicago for Christmas was a tradition we filled — given, never an option. All it takes is the opening of a coffee thermos to bring alive the memories. Each year we’d pack the family station wagon full of presents for every living relative, holiday sweets we weren’t allowed to eat, sleeping bags, and hot ham and cheeses wrapped in foil.
The rules of the Buffer family car were simple: Dad cracked open his window to smoke his annual cigar (why he chose the subzero season I’ll never know); mom broke up fights; Jeff and Tom got the back seat; Jimmy and I sat in the cargo area (before they invented rear air vents); I sang off key and entirely too loud for an enclosed space; you better have to go real bad if you asked for a rest area; and, under no uncertain terms, were we to take off our sensible snow worthy shoes. “You never know when we’ll need to stop!” We’d make it to Chicago after dark, cross the Skyway Express and listen to radio reports of Santa spottings over the city, four little noses pressed against the cold windows in search of the sleigh.
This year, our sleigh was a grading machine blocking Interstate 65. Rudolph’s nose took the form of red emergency flares, held by Santa the State Trooper, who waved us off the exit ramp to Frankfort, Indiana. You know the place, right? The farm fields around us were covered with snow, though no flakes were currently falling here or in Chicago. We learned that ice and snow had closed the highway somewhere in-between (of course).
We were directed to a former JC Penny auto repair shop under conversion to a workshop for handicapped adults. I hauled my personal belongings through the snowy parking lot, careful not to complain about my cold wet feet in front of my father. I wondered if we could just turn around, go home, and salvage this holiday. When the local firemen and their auxiliary showed up with cots and generators, I had my answer.
The women made soup, chili and sandwiches, while the men set up camp. With the whir of the generators, we’d have the luxury of heat throughout the night, complete with little bits of cinder floating and swirling about. Not exactly “snowflakes on my nose and eyelashes” but close.
My parents and I claimed our cots in the middle of the drafty shelter, surrounded by, oh, 175 of our new best friends, including the couple on the way home from their honeymoon. I knew my situation could be worse at that moment, but I couldn’t help thinking I was stuck in the middle of a Readers’ Digest story.
With the day looming ahead of me, I was actually glad I’d brought along next semester’s textbooks. Study break snack came in the form of Peter Paul Mounds candies, sent over from the local factory — not a bad deal! By dinnertime though, the sugar high of my Almond Joy faded and desperation took its place. We braved the elements; rummaged through the crammed car and brought in anything and everything not frozen in place.
We unwrapped the niece’s and nephew’s games and spread them around. The Trouble! popper echoed above even the generators. I learned I wasn’t the only one who could still wave those game pieces on my fingertips. Mom broke open the tins of her famous “Buckeyes” — peanut butter, powder sugar, and chocolate artery clogging treats. They were happily devoured, but we truly became the most popular people in the place when we popped the corks on a few gallons of red wine — my dad’s and my best basement vintage, no less. Things started to look up.
Christmas morning dawned clear, cold and beautiful but with no idea when the road would reopen. Townspeople came and provided breakfast for us. We freshened up as best we could in the unheated, fluorescent yellow rest rooms. During lunch, we learned the northern route would remain closed indefinitely. My parents decided to turn around and head home. I felt overwhelmingly let down, defeated. My dad was not eager to phone his parents with such tidings. With no snow falling in Chicago, my grandmother would not accept that we couldn’t get there.
It’s amazing to me that almost twenty years have passed since that failed road trip. I talked to my mom, the “new” Grandma Buffer, last night. She, big surprise, hadn’t relived the incident in quite some time. She remarked how time definitely allows for once not so funny situations to appear quite humorous now. God give me the grace to remember how true that is as I load the mini van for our family Christmas up north.
I’ll pack a thermos of coffee whether I want it or not; but save the cigar for arrival. I’ll crank the heat in the rear vents, plug in the TV/VCR combo, throw in the sleeping bags, cellular phone, Trouble! Game and presents. I’ll let my dad provide the homemade wine; but handle the hot ham and cheeses myself. I’ll strap on the car top carrier to complete the “we are now official goobers like our parents” look. I will NOT, however, in no uncertain terms, allow my children to take off their sensible snow-worthy shoes. You never know when we’ll have to stop!
Karen Rinehart is a syndicated newspaper columnist, public speaker, and creator of The Bus Stop Mommies™. Her book, Invisible Underwear, Bus Stop Mommies and Other Things True To Life, is a popular read in book clubs, school pick up lines, and soccer fields. She enjoys hearing from readers across the States and as far away as Australia, Japan, and England. You can read more at BusStopMommies.com. Karen lives in North Carolina with her two kids, two dogs, and one husband, where they attend St. James Catholic Church. (Well, they leave the dogs at home.)
