“I guess I do like to write about my encounters with weather. It gives me something to dig my teeth into, although as we all know, much of our weather is now manipulated. But, that aside, on the ground floor, we still experience it in much the same way. In light of yesterday’s winter storm warning, I wasn’t sure what to say when the seller on Craigslist I’d been communicating with gave me a bit of an ultimatum. He could only meet me outside of Troy, closer to Bennington at a Stewart’s Shops gas station if I came in the next 12 hours. Otherwise, it was Albany, or some obscure address in a bad section of Albany’s sister city. Which I don’t really do anymore. I’m too much of a hick. So it was drive for three hours one way into deteriorating weather on a day schools were closing, or face driving into some sketchy city situation, on another day. Thanks, asshole. Excuse my French. I tried to play the nice card, but it didn’t fly. “It’s on Route 7” he said. To a Vermonter that means one thing. But based on his cell phone number, he was from Jersey. It went wrong, in Pownal. In a steady rain, I pulled off the road, next to an icy swimming pool that was someone’s driveway. I pressed the redial, then said: “Bruce?”. What followed was an amicable argument about how Route 7 could be in two places at once. Here i was, going south away from Troy on what I thought was Route 7, while he insisted I was on the wrong road. “It’s the Stewart’s on Route 7” he repeated, for the umpteenth time. “But, I’m headed to Massachusetts,” I said. “I have a funny feeling this is not the way to NY”. “Look”, he said, not unkindly. “I don’t want to mix you up, because I just follow my GPS. I don’t know exactly where you are, but ... do you use GPS?”. It was a good question. I didn’t have the time or energy to explain to him my reservations about letting Google track me everywhere I go. “Okay,” I said, “I’ll figure it out. I’m going to backtrack & follow my nose. See you in a half hour”. We clicked off. When I pulled into Stewart’s, he was there in his red Yukon. I thought he’d be interested to know that NY Route 7 turned into VT Route 9. And that it intersected VT Route 7 at a ninety degree angle. He wasn’t. He counted the cash I gave him, and handed me back a five, so I could get some coffee. As he drove off, I tightened up the ratchet straps, holding in my purchase, covered with a layer of plastic and a layer of brown duck cloth. The rain was spitting cold, but it was still above freezing. It was an odd juncture, on the border of two states, somewhat rural, but a bit manic and disjointed. The coffee was hot, and good. The Stewart’s cashier was friendlier than anyone I’d run into all day. That warmed me a bit, as I settled back into the cab of my truck, and turned back on my audio book, a detective mystery, taking place in Italy. It was another three hours home. But I had my 20” propane gas stove in tow, and I was ready to boogie. The big storm that was coming, was somewhere north of me, still. I’d be ready to meet it, and greet it, probably around Rutland. That’s how we Vermonters roll.”
