5:30 came early this morning, as it is wont to do. I awoke at this unfriendly hour because I agreed months ago to volunteer my time at today’s auditions for the All State music festival. That it was two days after my wisdom teeth extraction was not really a consideration. That it was on the day of a snowstorm … well, that was just a bonus.
The actual waking up part was a piece of cake, as I am on a complicated regimen of antibiotics and assorted painkillers whose dosage schedules rarely coincide. The 5:30 alarm was no more painful than the 2:00 and 12:00 alarms that preceded it. In fact, it actually felt good to wake up with somewhere to be after two days of listless movie watching.
The morning started out smoothly enough. My first cup of dark roast coffee after a hot liquids ban was deeply satisfying. My head was clear, and most importantly, so were the roads. This was a matter of concern to me. I drive a compact car – a bright red Toyota Yaris which I have owned for two and a half years. It was the first new car I had ever purchased, and it was the first time I had ever shopped for a vehicle without my father’s help, so it was a big deal on many levels. The negotiation on that car remains one of my proudest achievements, although I will admit to using some underhanded measures to get the price I wanted. One can waste a lot of time playing the Ignorant Single Woman card. Having spent the entire afternoon test driving various vehicles and asking about cupholders and auxiliary jacks, I finally stated my intent: I knew what I wanted, I knew what the dealership had paid for it, and I knew exactly how much I was willing to pay.
It only took two more hours of stubbornly digging in my heels to get my Mighty Yaris. I’ve never seen anyone more irritated than the salesman was with me, but I’ve also never felt more connected with a car. We are a team, the Mighty Yaris and I.
The Mighty Yaris slips into tight parking spaces with ease. She renders three-point turns unnecessary. Like a clown car, her small size belies her staggering capacity for storing random crap. But she is somewhat less mighty in the snow. Particularly when she is not wearing her snow tires.
Dear readers, I know that as a New Englander who has waited until January to dig her snow tires out of storage, I have no one to blame but myself for white-knuckle drives. But I will admit to becoming more than a bit cranky as the snow began to fall.
There had been some question as to whether the event would go on as scheduled today. With students coming from all over the state – including the cape and the islands – the snow was a major concern. While Thursday and Friday’s threatening weather reports rolled in, my computer pinged repeatedly as one “what if?” email after another appeared in my inbox. We volunteers agreed upon a snow contingency plan. Cell phone numbers were distributed. “If there is a God in heaven, I’ll see you Saturday” said the last email from the event coordinator.
Ever since I totaled my first car while taking a turn too fast on packed snow, I have not relished winter driving. I had serious doubts about whether it was the right choice to run the auditions as scheduled, and about whether I had made the right choice to comply. As I drove up route 495 and straight into a snowstorm this morning I began to suspect that, if there is a God in heaven, He would advise us that some things are more important than a music festival.
Now, speaking of those who are in heaven – and there’s really no great way to write about these things without sounding trite – on the drive this morning my thoughts turned to Mr. Parks, the college band director who so inspired me and whose loss I have sorely felt since his untimely death. There was nothing particularly remarkable about this moment; my thoughts frequently turn to him. Particularly in moments when I struggle to determine the right choice. And the simple fact is that there is no question what he would have done in this circumstance. He would have pressed onward, snow be damned. He honored his commitments, and therefore so do I.
I made it to the audition site – the mile-long incline up to the host school was by far the hardest part of the drive – and strategically parked my car for an easy exit. My eight students who were auditioning soon arrived, accompanied by two parent chaperones – hardy New England women unfazed by storms. My time with them was fleeting, as I had been assigned a job to do as a festival volunteer. But having been away from my students for the last three days, I was glad for the opportunity to tell them how proud I was of their hard work towards this audition.
As I waited, crouched next to my crew, I felt a tap on my shoulder. I rose to find myself face to face with Jeanne Parks, the wife of my band director, who I have not seen face to face since before his death. She, too, is a music educator. She greeted me with a big smile and a warm embrace. She had driven even farther than I had that morning but was unflappably cheerful about it. This is just what we do. Our moment together was brief, but it was reason enough for me to brave the storm.
The drive home this afternoon was long but uneventful. The Mighty Yaris, even without her snow tires, was mighty as ever. Fearlessly she pressed on through the swirling snow, true to her aim as always. Steadily she trundled along in second gear with nary a slip. She has never let me down, for she is mighty, and when I am behind the wheel, I feel a little bit mighty, too.
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