My mistake, I think, resulted from choosing comfort over safety. Take the comfy car that doesn't handle well in snow or the one that handles well in snow but makes me want to drive it off a cliff? Clear roads, sparse snowflakes--"Let's take the comfortable car."
So we drove straight into a snowstorm in great comfort, fishtailing only a few times, and then we sat in church in comfort, watching a thick curtain of big fluffy snowflakes falling outside the windows, and we even drove home in comfort, although it took a little longer than usual. Forty-five minutes to drive ten miles, to be precise. Part of that time was devoted to helping a teenager get his pickup truck out of the way of traffic after he nearly slid off the road at precisely the same spot where our daughter wrecked a car four years ago. Five or six vehicles sat at various angles all over the road while strong men in Sunday suits put their shoulders to the kid's truck to keep it from falling down the cliff. A snowplow arrived, a little too late, but it couldn't get through until we got the truck out of danger and got the rest of the cars moving.
We finally arrived home in comfort and were greeted by a flock of jumpy juncos, and we've spent the afternoon in great comfort, eating home-made chocolate chip cookies in front of the fire. Nothing is more comfortable than a warm house on a snowy winter day--but next time I go out, I'm choosing safety.
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