April Ride

As I stepped out the door, sleet pelted down, coating the stone steps with a treacherous glaze. It would be a slow and miserable walk home. But first, I had to go to the post office to mail taxes.

"Ain't April in Vermont grand?!" I thought grumpily, snapping open my umbrella and planting my feet carefully on the squish-slippery ground.

Four years ago, I fell on a patch of ice and broke my wrist. The shocking speed with which I had gone from upright to prone, whole to broken, and the five weeks of claustrophobic inactivity that followed had left me with an outright fear of slippery winter footing. I now walked at a pace that would have made my 85 year old mother impatient.

So when I ran into a friend in the post office and she offered me a ride, I accepted gratefully.

She apologized. her car was across the street at the far end of the lot, right next to the river, so we had a bit of a walk through sleet and slush. Then came the process of getting the car out of its awkward parking spot.

I am not a driver, but even I knew that there wasn't much leeway here. The only way to back out involved backing toward the river with a stomach wrenching little drop off from the dirt of the parking lot to the sleet covered grass of the river bank , and inching forward, slithering a little on the sleety grass, backing again, inching again, and each time, I waited to feel the ground truly drop away, to feel the car plunge backward into the North Branch.

The hand holding my umbrella, hidden from driver-view by my hip, was clenching each time the wheels dropped from dirt onto grass, each time the tires spun on sleet.

"If only I had just walked home?" I thought to myself. "Instead, I'm going to drown in the waters of the North Branch in April, all because I didn't want to get wet!"

We didn't land in the river, obviously, but all the way across town to my neighborhood, I was tense, watching each pedestrian, each intersection, tensing at the sudden jerk of the brake, the slight slithering fishtail of acceleration.

It wasn't that she was a bad driver. Frankly, as some one who has never driven, and never will, I'm not in a position to judge. I just couldn't get over the feeling of impending disaster from that river bank parking spot.

"You can drop me at the corner." I said.

"Oh, I can take you right home." my friend said cheerfully.

"Monsignor Crosby Street is a mess." I said "Lots of pot holes. Besides, you'll want a little head start to make it up First Avenue."

I was being thoughtful and polite. I was also ready to get out of that car.

I knew that I would need to walk carefully to get to the safety of my porch, but I could be careful. Despite my years of dependence on others for transportation, this was one instance where I much preferred to rely on my own balance and caution, rather than on the reflexes and judgement of another person.