Editorials

He took one hundred dollars from his top dresser drawer just before his sister picked him up on that cold February Sunday. The trees were dipped in silver, a strong affirmation that winter was not quite finished. He walked slowly into the Caribou Rite Aid, careful to avoid patches of ice concealed by the newly fallen snow.

I am guilty of taking many things in my world for granted, and one of them is warmth. Over the past three weeks or so, we have been wrestling with bitter, unforgiving cold weather. My house is warm. My car is warm. My office is warm. My clothing is sufficient.

What started out to be a passing thought, turned out to be the trip of a lifetime. During the summer of 1965, my parents decided we would head to Prattsburgh, New York in a tomato red Rambler station wagon to see my mother’s oldest sister, Helen, and her only son, Keith.

Each week, I write about the lessons I have learned while on this journey we call life and it is my intent to be humorous and candid with these anecdotes. There is nothing that brings me more joy than hearing your comments and your thoughts through e-mail and conversation.

The day was pure. Severe freezing temperatures caused my nostrils to cling together like Velcro. We owned a 1967 Evinrude snowmobile; blue and white with a glaring orange seat and heavy frame. The Evinrude was mine to drive and on this January Sunday, my mother decided we should go riding down the middle of the Maysville Road on that shy old machine.

The warm night swooped down like a welcome blackbird; seeking the perfect spot to drop a slice of adventure. I was seventeen, restless and powerful behind the wheel of a maroon, 1968 Dodge Polara. There were four of us on this pilgrimage and we were conjuring up the perfect spell to attract the four young men pursuing us; waving a lasso of loud music and laughter that flirted with the Dodge and our hearts.