03/08/2002

March Mudness

March in Connecticut isn't always as balmy as it is this year. The aftermath of a Nor'easter can produce some memorable moments, as it did for my friend Bettie. Do her travails, described below, bring back memories?

A post-storm, multi-truck saga
by B. L. WALKER

"A Nor'easter's bearin' down," warned the radio announcer on a late February Sunday. Sure enough, the "storm of the century" blew snow drifts five feet high in Northwest Connecticut. As it melted, we wallowed in mud over boot tops.

On Tuesday, March 30, I made a simple phone call to my oil company dispatcher with a cautionary warning: Better deliver early in the day while the earth is still firm.

Alas, it was mid-afternoon before a Big Blue Truck backed down my 1,000-foot driveway, tires squealing.

"Can't get close enough to deliver your fuel," called the bearded Kenny. "Not sure I can get out, either." But he did. Two hours later, after gouging ruts into which I could have buried a coffin.

Ah ha, I thought. My trusty snowplow guy, Walter, can solve this nasty mess. He's but another simple phone call away.

"No problem" he assured me. "Be there in the morning."

And so he was. All morning long. His Silver 4-Wheel Drive sank into the mud up to its floorboards. "Not to worry," he said. His brother-in-law, Billy, lumbered to the rescue in his Big Yellow Hulk. Billy said it would probably cost $2,500 for fill.

"Not to worry," Walter comforted again. "I'm going to Kentucky for a week. It'll be dry enough to grade when I get back. Maybe." The muck turned to soup with my faithful White Beretta trapped in its garage. But luck was with me. My vacationing friend, Barbara, had trusted me with the keys to her Sexy Blue Convertible. I could borrow it for the afternoon to keep an appointment with my tax man. The sun felt warm as I walked two miles to Barbara's condo. I felt guilty about using her car without permission, so promised myself I'd track her down in Florida after dinner.

Another bit of luck. My dear neighbors, Ellie and George, had asked me to look after their home while they visited Norway. "They probably won't mind if I park Barbara's car in their driveway," I reasoned.

That evening, I dialed information. "There's no such place as 'Niceville'," the operator snapped. "Where's it near?"

"Tampa. I think."

Oh well, Barbara would do the same for me, I convinced myself. But I felt nervous about driving her car without her blessing.

In my basement, the oil tank gauge sat on "E." I lowered the thermostat to 55 degrees, hoping to trick the furnace into thinking it was summer. Lucky for me, I had over two whole gallons of kerosene for my spanking new heater to keep the kitty and me warm. Must conserve, though. Might be a week before Big Blue can return. At least.

(If this was Mother's Nature April Fool's prank, it wasn't funny.)

Friday, April 2, my dear, dear friend Casey lugged a five-gallon can of kerosene through my field that abuts the driveway. Only a few months post-op from a quadruple bypass, he was ashen and panting. "Can't stand to think of myself all warm and toasty and you freezing your buns," he gasped. A chilling thought crossed my mind: There was no way an emergency vehicle could get to us. Ugh!

A weekender friend, Nancy, phoned on Sunday morning, having heard about my soupy situation. Without my knowing as I undertook shopping errands, Nancy and her pal, Fred, decided they would rescue the car to make my life right again. Hey, what are friends for?

Being city people, they underestimated that mud is actually quicksand, so White Beretta became muddy polka-dotted when they drove it into the soft field, whereupon it sank to mid-hubcaps.

Early Monday, now April 5, I heard a motor lumbering. Surely, it's not Big Blue. But it was. Backing down the same two-foot deep ruts.

Big Blue spent the morning here, as did a second smaller Red Truck, totally immersed in the goo. Ta dum... to the rescue... an Orange Winch from the local sand and gravel company. My driveway resembled a battle zone in a war movie. And from my kitchen window, I saw Kenny throw my favorite shovel into his pickup truck!

On Tuesday, the 6th, I called the oil company again to report that the situation had become a medical problem. Six days of kerosene fumes precipitated an asthma flare-up. Chuck, the first sign of intelligent life, asked, "Has anybody measured the amount of fuel in the tank? Gauges can be inaccurate."

"No," I answered. "But yesterday, there were four 4-wheel drive trucks, two tankers, and a dozen guys cogitating in my driveway. Could any one of them have brought me fuel?"

"I'm coming to measure your tank," he said.

And he did. "You have 50 gallons, plus the five I just hauled through the field. You're fine for a week if this warm weather holds." What luck!

Later that afternoon, Fred brought Don around in Don's Brown 4-Wheel Drive Truck. This was especially irksome since I'd specifically told Fred: NO MORE MACHINERY IN THE FIELD. JUST LET IT DRY OUT.

However, Don yanked my now Beige Beretta out of the muck and parked it in Ellie and George's driveway. Whereupon, Don's enthusiastic young helper immediately drove Don's Brown Pickup dead center into a soft spot, naturally getting 100% glued.

Overcome by the enormity of what he'd created, Fred slunk to his car, quietly drove off, and hasn't been seen since.

Neighbor Barney volunteered his service, but was smart enough to survey the land and declined to play this wild and crazy game with his Black Town & Country Station Wagon.

Although Chester, driving a Green Tractor, did heed the call to rally. Greenie couldn't cut the mustard, only the field. And poor Don. He lost an afternoon's work with this folly.

Wednesday morning, April 7, brought relief when Billy's same Big Yellow Hulk, now under the steady hand of Barney, roared through the field, plucked out Don's truck, and sent him on his way to yesterday's work.

Eyes twinkling, Barney said, "You've had an interesting assortment of vehicles in your driveway and field all week." He neglected to mention the rainbow of colors I'd been watching for days on end.

Toward the end of April, my neighbors returned safely home and were amazed that our side-by-side fields had become a swamp. But Red Truck loads of gravel filled the driveway ruts so Big Blue could rumble down, Kenny filled my tank (although denied stealing my shovel), early hay began to sprout in the field, and the longest month of my life became a maddening muddy memory.

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