Following a truck

It seemed like a good idea at the time.

Then again, most bad ideas do.

Just after daybreak last Thursday morning, I loaded my car and pulled out of the driveway of the little cabin I'd rented Up North. After spending the better part of three weeks working on a project in Alpena, I was eager to get home to my family downstate.

Weather forecasters firmly warned drivers to stay off the roads because of an impending snowstorm. But I missed home. I missed my family. And my son had a music recital that night, and I wasn’t going to miss it.

By the time I got going, snow had already clobbered my usual routes home through the middle of the state. But the storm hadn’t yet hit the east side, where U.S.-23 traces the shore of Lake Huron. I decided to give it a shot.

Yeah, I shouldn’t have done that.

I don’t know where I was when my windshield started to ice over. Even my newish wiper blades were no match for the wet, gloppy snow that thickened as soon as it hit my windshield, freezing to my blades and leaving a smear of slush right in front of my eyes.

I couldn’t turn the wipers off, or the snow would have blinded me like a car wash. And I couldn’t stop to clean off the ice buildup. By then, the roads had dissolved into white plains flanked by dark walls you only assumed were trees. There was no turning, no stopping. No buildings, no side roads, no anything but the white below you and the white around you and the deep, driving knowledge that any stray jiggle of the wheel or errant tap of the brake would send you careening into nothingness.

I’ve been a northern Michigan girl for a dozen years now. I’ve driven my share of snowstorms and had plenty of practice navigating a two-ton hunk of metal in complete whiteout conditions.

My coping strategy is to tune the radio to the most raucous song I can find, crank it up, and turn the storm into a dance party. The way I see it, freaking out about the inherent danger of the storm won’t make me a safer driver. I’m better off trying to get my body to un-tense and pretend it’s having fun. If headbanging to Queen helps, who am I to question it?

With Joan Jett blasting from my radio, I hunched and leaned above the steering wheel, trying to see under or around the slush blocking my view of what I assumed was still U.S.-23. I had passed through one small town and thought about pulling off the road, but no hospitable driveways presented themselves.

Besides, I was still following my truck.

Shortly after I turned onto U.S.-23, I found myself behind a white, mid-sized delivery truck. If it had logos on the side saying what company operated it, I couldn’t see them ― all I saw was the flat, dirty-white rectangle of its back end relentlessly ahead of me.

I can get as impatient as the next driver when I’m stuck behind a truck. Sometimes I make little runs around them in openings in opposite traffic, feeling a little superior as I dart back into my lane and take off at my higher speed.

But in the snowstorm, the truck in front of me became not a nuisance but a lifeline.

Swallowed by the angry snow, my windshield half iced over, I gratefully stayed behind my white truck, eyes on its backside.

I couldn’t see a lot, but I could see the truck. As long as it stayed on the road, I would stay on the road. I just had to follow.

Once or twice, the truck pulled away from me and half disappeared in the snow. “Don’t leave me,” I pleaded aloud, breathing with relief when I caught up to it again.

The truck’s driver had to wonder what she was doing out in that storm. (I don’t know if the driver was female, but that’s the image I had in my mind.) I bet she had a heck of a time seeing the road. I bet her window was freezing up, too.

I wish I knew what she was carrying and why she had to brave the drive. Even more than that, I wish I could thank her.

She didn’t know she was leading me. But, as she navigated her own difficult drive, she showed me which way to go and left tracks for me to follow.

She helped me be OK.

Storms don’t stop when the weather clears up. We all navigate our own tricky roads and fight our own battles, big and small. Sometimes we struggle to see what’s ahead. We get nervous and afraid and crank up the distractions to help ourselves cope.

In the jarring whiteness, often we only see ourselves, lost in the middle of it.

But we’re not alone on the road.

If we're lucky, we have someone ahead of us, whose example we can follow.

Other times, without our ever knowing it, someone may be following us, watching what we do and using it to help them stay on course.

The daughter, seeing her mother stand firm when the world tells her to be weak.

The son, learning from his father to answer anger with kindness.

The person behind you in line, listening to your patient response to the grumpy cashier.

Kids watching teachers and teachers watching kids. Brothers and sisters and hairdressers and construction workers and crossing guards, all watching each other, learning, following, keeping each other on the road.

I lost sight of my truck for the last time near Standish. By then, the snow was lightening. A stop at a gas station gave me a chance to clear my wiper blades. I kept my speed down and remained safely on the road the rest of the way home, despite the half-dozen cars I passed that had spiraled off of the road and into the ditch.

I wonder if anyone stayed safe because they were following me.

Do what’s right because it’s right, but also because you can lead someone else on the right path. Ask for help when you need it, knowing you’re showing someone else it’s OK to need each other. Stay on the road you want someone watching you to follow.

Easier said than done, of course. But we can try. We sure can try.

And, to the driver of that white delivery truck: thank you for helping me get home.

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If you’d like an email notification when I post something new on this blog, email me at juliemarshmallows@gmail.com or, if you can find it, share your email address in the appropriate signup box. I’m still wrestling with technology in my attempt to make that more findable.

I’d be honored if you would share this post with anyone you think might appreciate it. Especially if they drive trucks for a living.

Winter isn’t over, at least in Michigan. Stay safe out there. And if you do get caught in a snowstorm, well then, have yourself a little dance party!

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Oh, and a word about the photos: they are not from my drive. Yes, I DID think about getting out my phone and taking a picture of my frozen windshield and guardian truck as I was driving. But I did NOT do that, and I think I get credit for my self-restraint.

(The second photo is the only photo of falling snow I could find in my collection. Bonus points to any of my Alpena friends who can identify where it was taken.)