Staying Power #135: "It Might Have Been Otherwise"
A story of what is
“Only in Minnesota,” the guy shouts into the blizzard as he shovels behind our rear tires, “can you have eighteen inches of snow one day, then a week of ninety-degree days, followed by this shit!”
His mountain-man beard is grizzly with snow. He has come in his tow truck to winch our car out of the ditch.
To echo a line from the poet Jane Kenyon, “It might have been otherwise.”
Only yesterday, Jihong and I had left home in South Dakota for Nathan’s college in St. Peter, Minnesota. At the time, the weather forecast called for spring rain. As we drove east, we laughed about having forgotten our umbrellas.
Then, last evening, as we awaited the start of Nathan’s orchestra concert, we discovered on our cell phones that the forecast had dramatically changed. Forget the rain. Six inches of snow were now predicted overnight. The storm was expected to taper off around the time we were hoping to set out again for home.
“No problem,” we told each other, as the conductor lifted his baton. “We’ll just wait for the plows to clear the roads.”
The next morning, we peered out the window of our hotel room, prepared to behold a winter wonderland. Surprise! Only a thin coat of white on the greening grass.
We consulted different weather apps. They predicted an inch more, if that.
Hot diggity! Such good luck! Forget the snow plows!
It might have been otherwise.
After a leisurely Sunday brunch with Nathan, we strapped his bike to the rack on the back end of our car. It needed a brake job.
The three of us made hasty goodbyes in the parking lot, a nasty gale roaring through us. But the snow that had dusted the campus overnight was already melting. Jihong and I were confident. In two and a half hours, we’d be home.
About forty-five minutes west on the desolate two-lane highway, we found ourselves in a whiteout. It was like being trapped in a snow globe that was constantly being shaken. We couldn’t tell whether fresh snow was falling from the sky or high winds were driving old snow along the ground.
Our car creeped ahead at 30 mph, hazard lights blinking. Where’s our traffic lane? Where’s the road’s edge? Our eyes strained toward any approaching shadows, lest we collide with another car head-on.
Occasionally Jihong pulled over to adjust the bike rack. Its straps kept loosening, buffeted by the hurricane-strength winds. Fortunately, before our departure from home (minus umbrellas), he’d tossed a winter coat, hat, and gloves into the backseat. Now, they helped protect him somewhat against the blizzard. But his stepping out of the car to work on the roadside in a whiteout was beyond perilous.
I was ready to pitch the bike altogether. A sacrifice to appease the gods.
A mishap was likely inevitable, no matter how carefully we proceeded. When Jihong finally lost control, the car skated sideways across both lanes in slow motion. Our drop into the snowy ditch was gentle. We landed far enough down that our back end was unlikely to be struck by a passing vehicle.
It might have been otherwise.
Jihong and I didn’t suffer any injuries. Our car had no obvious damage.
It might have been otherwise.
We were stuck in an area with spotty cell service, but we were able to call 911.
It might have been otherwise.
We had enough gas in our tank that we could run the car engine to stay warm.
It might have been otherwise.
A young man appeared with a collapsible shovel to scoop snow away from our car doors and our muffler.
It might have been otherwise.
State Patrol arranged for a wrecker to haul us out of the ditch. The tow truck would have to travel twenty-five miles through the storm to reach us.
“I should be there in an hour,” the tow truck driver said.
It might have been otherwise.
“Only in Minnesota . . .” the tow truck driver shouts, digging at the snow, preparing to winch us out. He’s got to be exhausted and chilled to the bone after hours of rescuing crazy people who shouldn’t be on the roads in such weather. But he still has a scrap of humor.
It might have been otherwise.
Shall I tell you how, less than an hour after our rescue from the ditch, 40-mph winds blow both the bike and rack off our car; how Jihong disappears into the storm to retrieve them; how I try to get out to help but can’t open my door more than a few inches, though I kick and shove with both feet . . .
I think not.
None of that is important now.
What matters now is that, after nearly six hours on the road, Jihong and I are safely home, where the sun is shining brightly, the sky is blue, and not a single flake of snow is anywhere in sight.
It might have been otherwise.
“One day,” as Jane Kenyon says at the end of her poem, “it will be otherwise” (emphasis mine). One day, the last storm of my life will close over me, and I will fall softly into the arms of whatever’s next—a world that can’t be glimpsed from here.
Until that moment of passage arrives, I will rejoice in the happy otherwise-ness of being alive.
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The Gentle Nudge
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Thank you. For sharing the wonder of this. It might have been otherwise. Your presence online & therefore in my life is a wonder. Thank you - for being you! Whatever would we do, without the art of connection?!
How beautifully written, friend. My heart was in my mouth as I read on and I am so glad that, though it might have been otherwise, you and Jihong are home safely and all is well. Thanks you for sharing this. It is very moving.
Julie