Make it to the Next Town

Maybe we can make it to the next town, our dad said.

Our mom did not answer, her back stiff with fear.

Maybe, I thought. Maybe?

The wind howled as we drove. Everything was white. The sky, the surrounding farmland, the road.

Thirty minutes passed. The endless whiteness began to turn slowly gray. And still we drove on till the car lurched off the road. We tried pushing as its tires spun, the temperature a killing twenty below.

Returning to the car we sat in silence, the sky turning still darker. Another hour passed.

An eighteen-wheeler slowed as it drove by, and we waved frantically from the cocoon of our old Chevy. But it did not stop, and we watched its taillights disappear into the night.

Will he stop in the next town and tell someone? Mom asked.

Dad shrugged. Another hour passed.

A Rambler station wagon pulled alongside and invited us to join them. The car had a person in every seat and luggage filling the back. The five of us climbed in and sat on their laps.

The Rambler moved ahead cautiously, the miles crawling by till the highway disappeared in the drifting snow and we slid off the road. We got out and pushed till the cold drove us back in.

I dared not look at the gas gage. Another hour passed as eleven people sat in silence.

Lights penetrating the darkness, we leaned forward expectantly, a glorious snowplow appearing to clear our way.

We all cheered.