“The weather report says heavy rain in Southern Vermont mid-afternoon tomorrow. Let’s leave around nine in the morning,” Connor looked up and nodded in response as he finished his last supper of spaghetti and meatballs. Winter break was over and he was headed back to Marlboro College for his final semester.
Steve and I made a deal early on: I would drive Connor to school at the beginning of each semester and he would pick him up at the end. When we first dropped him off at campus as a freshman, we had to put all of his stuff in storage; the incoming class was bonding through a series of off-site orientation activities, so the majority of clothing, electronics and toiletries were packed into plastic cases and boxes and stored until they returned. We didn’t even get to see his dorm room; we dropped him off at the student center while upper class men and women helped unload and pack cases and boxes into storage units. After orientation, each student was to retrieve their stuff and set up their room.
Imagine our surprise when we returned to campus on Parents’ Weekend in October. We opened Connor’s door and I let out a huge gasp. “Are you kidding me?” my voice rising higher with each word. We discovered a floor covered with boxes, shirts and underwear halfway in and out, and books and notebooks tottering on overturned plastic cases. Socks were balled up under the bed. The dresser, closet and bookshelf were empty. The only things he had unpacked since the end of August were his computer and his bed linens. The sheets and blankets were heaped on top of the bed in a tangled lump. Connor just looked at me and shrugged. “What’s the problem?”
Thus the driving arrangement: I bring him to school and exercise my ultimate control freak tendencies: Connor lugs his stuff into his dorm room while I make his bed: mattress cover, mattress pad, sheets, blankets, comforter, pillows. I hang curtains, place the carefully folded underwear and t-shirts into the dresser, hang jackets and jeans in the closet. I organize his shower caddy so that he just has to carry it down the hall to the bathroom. I fill the bottom of his bookshelf with popcorn, peanut butter, cereal and boxes of mac and cheese. The refrigerator has cheese, milk and Mountain Dew. When we hug goodbye, I’m good. I no longer have to deal with the shock of the room detritus that is the end of semester condition.
So on this Sunday morning in January, as we get ready for the drive toward last semester we know what we are doing. We take our 10 year old Ford Escape because it is easier to pack and has four wheel drive. Marlboro College is on the top of a mountain; the only access is a serpentine, narrow 2 lane road which is not fun to drive on a good day.
Describing driving as “not fun” is a stretch for me. I love to drive. Ever since my big blue Buick Electra 225 in high school when I was the errand runner for my Mom, I have loved getting behind the wheel. Happily, I was the designated driver for all of my high school friends and our activities. I would bring us to the movies or to the mall or along Route 128 to the beach, windows rolled down and singing along to Carole King or Stevie Wonder. I am sure it was me Springsteen had in mind when he wrote, “Roll down the window and let the wind blow back your hair.” Driving has always represented freedom for me, no more so than when I packed up my little stick shift Toyota Corona and sped away from a failed first marriage. And now, many years later, I attribute my good parking karma in which I rarely fail to find on street city parking, to my ease behind the wheel.
While I didn’t enjoy the 2-½ mile climb up Marlboro’s mountain where there is no radio or cell phone reception, the first hour and a half ride before we arrive at the base of the uphill drive was great. Car trips with my kids have always served as a forum for much needed conversation. There is something about being constrained in the front seat, side by side and not face to face that provides opportunities for opening up, especially with a non-communicative 20 year old son. On these back to school jaunts, we’d listen to and discuss whatever was on NPR and then when we no longer had radio reception, we’d talk about everything else: who he’s hanging out with, what he’s reading, how we’re both glad we’re driving back on a Sunday so we didn’t have to listen to Science Friday. These conversations helped get my mind off of the Subarus and pick up trucks with Vermont license plates that were whooshing around us and always going way too fast up this narrow country road with no guard rails.
It began sleeting at the Massachusetts/Vermont line. When we got off Route 89 in Brattleboro, Connor put his phone down and turned to me. “Courtney just got got there. She said the road is really slippery.” “She drives a Prius,” I scoffed. “We have 4-wheel drive. We’ll be fine.”
While my daughter inherited my driving gene, neither of my boys did. They drive only when absolutely necessary and are both very nervous drivers. They are also nervous passengers. “Relax,” I told him.
The road approaching the base of the mountain is straight; when it starts its incline, it is immediate. As we approached, we saw a line of backed-up cars in front of us, a sea of red tail lights. “Oh Oh,” I muttered.
I pulled into the Mobil station and Connor ran in to talk to the service attendant. “Drivers of the cars coming down are telling those going up to leave a lot of space between them. Cars are skidding all over the place,” he told me as he climbed back in.
“As long as I can get up and down before dark, we should be fine, Con.” We amended our usual plan. We would fling his stuff into his room so I could make a quick turn around. No organizing. I would just have to live with that.
We got back into line and waited for our turn to start the climb. Connor tried calling Courtney at Marlboro but there was no service. There was no radio reception, so there was no traffic or weather news. Cars in front of us started to turn around, giving up the fight. We inched up in line, but I was starting to get nervous. “We could turn around now, drive to Brattleboro, get a hotel room and drive up in the morning,” Connor suggested.
We were at the base of the mountain. “Let’s go for it.” I rolled down my window to talk to the driver reaching the bottom. “Do you have chains on your tires?” I shook my head. “Take it slow, then.”
Up we go. The first incline was fine; there was an occasional patch of ice but we were OK. Then it happened. There was a dip in the road before the ascent began again. As we drove down, I felt the back of the SUV slip to the left, toward the line of cars in the other lane. Connor gripped the dashboard. I was able to gain control and we started to climb again. We were on sheer ice and skidded into a motel parking lot, the one that made us laugh when we first saw it with its neon sign advertising free tv and telephone. We were about 50 yards up, with well over 2 miles to go.
“Sorry, Con. Can’t do it. We’re turning around.” Despite the cold, my palms were sweating as I slowly slowly turned the car around the parking lot to head back down the mountain. As I pulled onto the road, the tractor trailer ahead of us was stopped. The driver coming up the mountain, who was obviously a Vermonter with the common sense to have tire chains in the winter rolled down her window. “That truck’s not going anywhere. He’s calling the state police for a tow.” Cars behind us started laying on their horns. “Fuck!” I screamed, then pulled to the left, into the lane that was supposed to be for climbing and made my way around the tractor trailer. We inched our way back down to level ground.
I pulled over to the side of the road and burst into tears.
“I’ve never seen you so scared,” Connor looked at me from the corner of his eye.
“Fuck Vermont. We’re going home.” As we headed toward the highway and radio and phone reception, we discovered that 15 minutes after we left the mountain, the road was closed and tow trucks were sent in.
The next morning, under sunny skies, Steve and Connor set out for Marlboro College and arrived without incident.
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