frozen turkey

The reason I’ve decided to pass along this story is because X forwarded me this article reviewing the annual pig roast (and bluegrass music jamboree, I think) that her cousin Christian is a big part of up north. Plus, at least it’s out there for posterity and I won’t forget all about it when I turn senile. For those that live up in New England it’ll be a repeat – for those that don’t, here we go.

I’d headed out to southern Vermont, more specifically East Dummerston, on the Tuesday night of Thanksgiving week, 2005. My flight schedule took me from Reno to Boston where I’d reserved a rental to drive the 2+ hours across western Massachusetts before shooting north towards Brattleboro. X flew in from D.C. the next morning and I met her at the Hartford airport and we drove back up to Vermont and checked in at the Coloniel Motel and Spa. The Goepp Mansion was crowded that weekend with the siblings, children, cousins and friends visiting so we were ensconced comfortably in our own digs. A good number of us spent Wednesday evening doing a little howdy-do, having some dinner, and a glass of wine before retiring to our respective rooms, floors, wings, and cribs. The Eleven drove down the road to our alp-ish spa in our nicely appointed Hyundai Sonata – radio/CD, cruise control, headlights, and Florida plates.

The next morning we rolled out of bed and noticed a heavy New England snow still falling. There were three or four inches of fluffy flakes blanketing the holiday roads and our Sonata windscreen. How pretty! After a quick shower I walked outside to warm up the car and scrape the windows while X finished getting ready. The storm didn’t seem too much, the temperature was middling and comfortable, and I was looking forward to sitting around a fire before piling around tables with a bunch of folk I’d met either the previous evening or who would be showing up that day.

As we pulled out of the parking lot and got rolling on the virtually empty roads I could tell the roads were slick with the fluffed/packed ice/light snow pack that’s a bit deceiving. With my vast winter driving experience, learned on the snow and ice covered byways and highways of Nebraska, I gave the brakes a quick check to determine slippage and determine my friction circle. Check – nice and slow up the two-lane highway out of town, no hurry, a bit slick. That is nothing but good judgment and I was quietly complimenting myself inside my silly, silly head. I might vaguely remember thinking to myself some crazy junk about eggs and chickens.

After a few miles of climbing out of town on the highway there’s a left turn onto the road that takes you through the hamlet of ‘farm homes’ that indicate the suburbs of East Dummerston. You’ve got your trees and ditches, hidden driveways, and back-and-forth curves, deer, dogs, kids, and other obstacles that present problems to lesser drivers. I’m working the auto-transmission between drive and the two low settings, staying off the gas, coasting through the curves, and generally impressing the hell out of anyone that might be watching. Unfortunately, the only one watching is already spending the weekend with me in a New England motel – I’m getting nothing out of this masterful display. Since I’d been out to the estate on a few visits I knew that I’m was coming down a hill to a stop sign at the ‘Junction’. THE JUNCTION. It might be best to give you some reference to the diabolical area - here’s a map annotated with the pertinent points-of-interest.

I’m coming down E West Rd. to the stop sign at the School House / E West Rd. marriage: down-shift, light on the brakes, checking my speed, and steering deliberately – perfect stop. I look left up the hill to make sure no one is skidding down towards the intersection but, more importantly, to fully assess just how much speed I’ll need to reach over the first hundred feet of road if I have any hope of making it up the hill. I’m pretty good a math, a fantastic winter driver as I’ve already described, but even I know there’s little chance of coming close to the summiting the first crest. Even if I get that far, I’ve still got a hard right to negotiate and a second hill up Miller Road. I try to hold the wheels from too much spin as I turn and start accelerating from the stop sign; the front-wheel drive has very little grip and I know before I start that I’ve got no chance of making it. My mind immediately flips through the checklist and stops on the page titled “Give It Up”. And so I do….give it up. I turn to the date and tell her I’m going to back down to the flat area near the stop sign, park the car, and we can walk up to the house. I’ve once again flexed my supreme logic and patience.

I start creeping slowly backwards down the hill; we are only about 75 feet from the stop sign so we’re in good shape. As I’m pontificating on my decision-making prowess the car starts slipping faster under the pull of gravity; I can’t much brake, I can’t steer, but I can hear a crunch as the right-rear wheel slips into the creek/ditch at the side of road. Kaa-chunk-chunk and we’re stuck, one wheel in the ditch and the left-rear wheel up off the ground. We hop out of the car, assess the situation, and realize there’s no way on God’s green Earth we are driving out of this bucket of syrup. The snow’s really coming down by now and through the curtain of flakes we spy a kid outfitted in hunter orange, as you are, holding a shovel and wondering about the crazies in the ditch. He lives in the house with his stereotypical New England family, “Yuur really stook there in that ditch. Tain’t no way outta there on a day like this. It’s a beautiful snow though.” Great. I’m in a horrible movie and my car with Florida plates is stuck a ditch and I’ve got to deal with this?. I proclaim loudly that I’m from Nebraska, home of the free and land of the Huskers – I CAN drive in winter. I get knowing smirks from the Vermonters.

We realize that we should call up to the house, we can almost yell, and see if anyone has a chain and/or tractor available to yank us out of the ditch. My hopes aren’t high because I’m watching SUVs occasionally slide by, wheels locked, heading down the hill with little control. I’m just hoping we don’t get hit by yucks heading either up (they aren’t making it) or down the devilish climb. The snow is being worn off the road by these loons and it’s now nothing but sheet ice exposed. X hangs up the phone and relays to me and the crazy Simpsons people that Christian is coming down with a chain to ‘save us’. Just to let you know right now, he isn’t saving bupkus on this road, not a chance…no way, no how…but I admire his attitude. We chat with the Sox fans while we wait and watch more nearly out-of-control vehicles passing us every few minutes. I reiterate my Nebraska roots, talk up the Red Sox and Patriots, tell a story about my hunting prowess, and generally try to get the Simpsons family to not, 1. call other families to come watch and laugh at us or, 2. videotape the hi-jinks for YouTube. At some point Superman comes rolling around the left-hand turn at the top of the hill riding his Toyota super-truck and petting his faithful sidekick, Casco the Wonder Dog. The Simpsons father takes one look up the hill, squints his eyes, pushes up the eyeglasses, and decrees thus, “Oh, there’s a driver!”. Driver? I’m a driver. Give me one more chance…just one more. I guess Maine plates and good driving are some kind of ‘sign’ of good inclement driving abilities. Right, we’ll see. Chris comes about halfway down the hill, stops (!), turns around (!), applies the brake, and hops out with chain in hand. I can see this is only going to get more comical. I hook up the chain because I have gloves on…point for me…and Chris then tells me to get in the car and give it just a little gas. Let’s review: SUVs are unable to get up the hill even with running starts, folks can hardly drive down the hill because it’s all ice, my car is one-quarter in a ditch, Christian’s truck is at a dead stop in the middle of the hill, and he actually thinks he can not only get started and go up the hill…but do it while pulling another car? It’s laughable. L-A-U-G-H-A-B-L-E.

The chain tightens slowly and I feel it come taut. I’m watching the small four-wheel Toyota through the windscreen, he’s moving ever so slowly. Tasco is looking out the back watching me…laughing no doubt, because he knows what’s going to happen. Tug. Tug. Tug…I’m out and he’s still pulling the car. I’m shocked and amazed. Christian stops the truck mid-hill, hops out, and tells me to pull my car into the driveway on the right, turn around, and he’ll follow us down to the school where we can park and he’ll bring us up to the house. I decide we’re all better off if Mr. Incredible turns the car around, it’s a driveway after all and I sense a degree or two of slope. The car is immediately turned around as I watch, it’s facing downhill, and I manage to drive down to the school, park it, and we all head back up in the truck. If you must know, and surely you do, we shot right up the hill with Christian driving and X and I in the small cab: Wonder Dog was chuckling in my ear…I swear.

He’s not a bad cook either.

Love to all.

T