Vacation starts now. Kristin and I packed a few things and a small dog into her small car. We cleaned the room so we can return to a tidy den in 2013. Then we left.
The rain turned to snow, and by the time we hit the New Jersey Turnpike, it was increasingly clear that the conditions would only be getting worse. Apps confirmed this. I took the wheel and didn't let go until we were at our destination - about an hour west of Boston at the home of one of Kristin's closest friend's folks's place.
Many harrowing miles had passed beneath the balding tires of the beat-up white Echo. But we made it. I slid into a freshly shoveled spot in the driveway surrounded by deep white powder. Who said we wouldn't make it? I said we definitely would. I was bred for this. My family drives in poor weather just for kicks. We eat sandwiches full of rocks and cookies baked with broken glass. And if you won't believe that, then believe this: we don't hide in the garage when it snows.
I put it in park, snapped my fingers, and we were watching the glowing embers in a woodstove.
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