Bizarre blizzard behavior
by Linda Cope

I figured out why I don't want to slip and fall on the ice — besides the bumps and bruises and broken bones — besides the lack of dignity when I dance the windango for 25 feet before splatting on my face right in front of the county court-house. The real reason I don't want to fall is (drumroll) I hate surprises. Put more succinctly — I hate losing control.

During the recent ice storm of '99, the one in which my front-wheel-drive sport vehicle couldn't traverse the length of my driveway, I found myself a little cut off.

Being a country dweller, and working out of my home, I'm used to a little solitude. I've even been known to crave such, and after the hectic pace of the holiday season, I didn't mind the first eighteen inches of snow and ice.

At least the first five days of captivity I didn't.

But a person can only drink so much hot cocoa. A person can only go so many days without her mail. A person can stand only so many reruns of Andy Griffith and Green Acres.

A person gets real funny after too much of her own company.

And so, what does she do? She becomes someone else. And puts on her boots. And wraps up her head. And sets out for the mailbox, a long, frozen, one-quarter of a mile away.

Have you seen the movie, What About Bob? with Bill Murray? In that movie, Bill Murray's crazy (sanity challenged) character learns to overcome life's hurdles by breaking every obstacle into baby steps. As a deep thinking person, I'm always looking for truths on which to base my life, at least for the next few days.

So, I remembered the "baby-steps" theory as I set out for the mail. Itsy-bitsy steps on the surface of slick ice, stretching in all directions from my front door, would get me where I wanted to go.

I soon found that keeping one's feet in near proximity of one another heightens one's chances of breaking one's nose.

Hence, I adopted a straddled way of walking — a cross between Charlie Chan and a toddler in need of a new Huggy.

Soon enough, I discovered the flaws in this method. Keeping one's feet too far apart encouraged one to do the splits, something only the most fit Olympian should try on short notice.

Locked as I'd been in this struggle ... ah, adventure, I'd failed to notice how far I'd strayed from my house. I was rather out there. Mid-way, actually. The house looked like a postcard of a rescue station in Antarctica. The mailbox looked like a flag at the top of the Himalayas.

I now considered crawling.

The problem was, the occasional lone vehicle, should it happen by, would be able to see me crawling. Is that the reputation I wanted to foster in my community? Hadn't I gone to great lengths thus far to avoid crawling, in all of its forms? Isn't that why I'd taken classes and read stacks of books, and tried to be mannerly and polite to my fellow man?

I pressed on. Baby steps. One boot before the other, over and over and ouch.

Pick yourself up, dust yourself off and carry on. Just like life.

I eventually reached the mailbox, and was rewarded with a single advertising flyer. I must say, it didn't taste very nice, but then, I shouldn't have ripped it to shreds that way ... with my teeth.

And as you've probably guessed, I got home. It looked wonderful. I couldn't wait to drink that hot cocoa, couldn't believe I'd ever complained.

At the end of the week, my husband returned from traveling the glassy roads of our great state. I alternated between grabbing his lapels and smoothing them over as I talked and talked and talked.

I couldn't stop myself. It was worse than falling on the ice. Definitely worse for him. He took me to the IGA, probably hoping the butcher and checkout people could help listen as I released a week's worth of words.

Upon entering the store, I ran to the vegetable isle and started to juggle two heads of lettuce. "Look at me," I shouted. He calmly took them away. I realized then, I was a little hyper, a little giddy at seeing all the bright lights and the tomatoes. But I made several new friends. Strangers just trying to do a little shopping, get something for dinner. They didn't seem at all surprised that I hadn't been out in a while. One lady did mention I was a tad old for the Cookie Monster sock hat I wore, but all in all they were very sympathetic and wonderful listeners. I gave everyone my phone number.

And you know, if it ices up again, I think I've learned something about survival. And I think I'll be all right this time. I really do. Really.

Linda Cope is a freelance writer living in rural southern Illinois. She's closing in on 27 years of marriage, has four children and two grandboys, all of whom she uses to fuel her stories.

22 ILLINOIS COUNTRY LIVING MARCH 1999