Wood and Wipers

The sign read “Firewood Egg's Sold Here” so I had to see what those might be, and needing firewood anyway I took a chance.

I steered my little pickup truck into the drive, a sharp 90° on the curve of a busy highway and a lurch down a 50° grade. Weeeeee.

I approached a trailer (of course it was) but there was a dog/baby gate at the top of a long and rickety stretch of stairs (the place seemed to be built on stilts), so not wanting to alarm any dogs or babies, I just hung out, knowing someone would emerge eventually. Sure enough, one tall, thin dude came out, munching on his cereal. After getting the price (a mere 50 bucks for a rick of wood — a good price in the middle of winter) and hitting the bank to get cash (no checks), I came back, braved the driveway again, and he and his brother (skinny dude two) emerged again and directed me to the back of their lot, past the several bulls-eye and wooden deer targets (loaded with lots and lots and lots of shotgun holes), then past the chickens (even in the cold air the smell of chicken poop was pretty ripe), and over to the wood pile. As they loaded the wood we passed the time chatting about the fact that I "wasn't from around here," and "did I hunt?" The good news was that not being from around here wasn't bad because they weren't from around here either, although they were definitely from the South. Then brother three came out (stocky, with a cigarette hanging out of his mouth), and we discussed the impending snow storm. They told me they were from one of the Virginias or the Carolinas and they were used to snow. When I told them I was from the snowbelt of Western New York on Lake Erie, they were righteously impressed with my snow prowess. (Score one for the transplanted Yankee.)

They all admired my little truck and I figured it was probably older than they were. After a while of watching his brothers work, stocky brother three said he was cold and headed back to the house. Yeah, the big burly one with lots of insulation. I then heard the story about a truck like mine that they had bought from the wife of a friend when she needed bail money to spring her husband from jail. Apparently the deal went sour because when the guy finally got sprung he wanted his truck back, right then, along with the title they had paid for. Somehow their Mama got in the mix, but no shots were exchanged. (They may well have run out of bullets if the deer targets were any indication.) They lost the truck, and apparently the money, which vexed them greatly.

As they continued loading the truck, they suggested I let my son help me unload the wood when I got home. I thought it was an odd remark since no one has ever made the assumption that I had kids (I just look like children wouldn’t suit me — at all). But the remark was not insincere, so when I told them I had no sons they nodded in charitable understanding. I did tell them about my dogs, which are certainly as interesting and smarter than most children, and learned that the three brothers had a Chihuahua. Somehow I imagined that child gate was holding back something bigger – like a Doberman or a Rottweiler or a Pitbull. But a Chihuahua? I tried to picture these three big guys, in their high-water trailer, with a Chihuahua. I thought it would make a good country song or sitcom — “Three Brothers and a Chihuahua” — but I let it go without mention.

After the truck was loaded so that I could no longer see out the back window and the front tires were barely touching the ground, and was sure I wouldn’t make it out of their drive, I bid them ado, and as I drove past the chickens and the shot up wooden deer, they hollered I should come back if I need any more wood. I assured them I would — at 50 bucks, it was a good deal. And they told good stories. And they didn’t mind that I wasn’t from around here and that I didn’t hunt and I didn't have a son. It was a good visit. Just sorry I never got to see the Chihuahua.

I got home and unloaded and stacked the wood in time to turn around and hit the grocery store before the snow hit. Yes, I have become a true Southerner — I run to the grocery just like every other fool in town, with even the threat of snow. Having just used the truck, I thought I would take the van. I hadn’t driven it in a while and it needed the exercise. The van, my faithful van, with no heat, no AC, no radio, no defrost, no fan, no clock, and wipers that work on their own schedule. Sadly, I had forgotten about the wipers not working except when they weren’t needed.

Got through grocery shopping — half the town was there — just in time to watch the snow storm hit as I was wheeling my cart out the door. By the time I got the groceries in the van, the snow was falling at a really brisk rate. It was beautiful. Big white fluffy flakes, like back home. I got in the van, wrapped my blanket across my lap, started her up, turned on the lights (yes, the lights still work — knock wood) and hit the wipers. Nothing. Absolutely nothing. They didn’t even try. And that’s when I remembered why I didn’t take the van out on overcast days. Crap! I looked for a snow brush. Damned thing was in the truck. Suddenly the wipers gave a half-assed attempt to work. They died mid-swipe and may be stuck in that position forever. Great.

After rooting though the van (which is full of crap from the summer — I mean, why empty it out when I’ll just need it in a few more months?), I finally found a paint stick and struggled out of the van (and I was so nicely wrapped up in my lap blanket too), and worked on the windows with the paint stick. Whoever said necessity is the mother of invention (it was probably Ben Franklin), was right. I managed to get most of the snow off before it stuck again and made my way out of the parking lot, hoping I wouldn’t get stuck at a light. I theorized that if I could keep going I could create enough wind shear around the windshield that the snow wouldn’t stick.

Red light. Of course. Who was I kidding? Saint Christopher? (Is there a Patron Saint of windshield wipers? No? Well, there should be.) So we sat. And we sat. And we sat. Finally the light turned green and it was time to go.

By now the streets had a good inch of snow on them, so I took my time getting home, but surprisingly my theory worked. I didn’t have to stick my arm out the window, trying to scrape off the windshield with my handy paint stick. I was able to go just fast enough to keep the snow from sticking to the windshield but slow enough not to fishtail into a ditch. A good thing too, because besides nothing much working on my van, my plates expired last month. Oops!

The snow has stopped now. As stopped as my wipers. But it’s beautiful out. Dreadfully cold but that makes the snow sparkle on the fields and the trees and … the van. I’ll go out tomorrow and get some photos of the snow before it’s all gone, although as cold as it is supposed to be, I think it will be around for a day or two.

That firewood will sure feel good tomorrow night. Maybe I should work on that song about the three brothers and their Chihuahua. Wonder what his name is? Probably Killer or Bruno or Rocky. Next time I visit the Firewood Egg Brothers, I’ll have to ask.