Day 2 up north: I woke up this morning with a very small headache, and being a migrainee from way back, immediately felt dismay, then went on auto-pilot to get rid of it. This means moving slow, as if I were underwater, and basically just resting. So Dad went off to mass, and I went to take a small nap.

There has lately been some talk of who should/shouldn't still be driving in my family. This discussion revolves around two of my favorite parents, who shall be nameless here. I generally agree with the concensus that nameless peep's driving skills are becoming, um, not what they used to be, not so good, even perhaps, scary. The female nameless has certainly taken out a mailbox or two in her time, as well as slid a van load of church ladies into a snowy ditch (why she was the chosen driver among five women is a fact that later stundified some of us), and put more than a few dents and dings in family vehicles. Most recent biggie: through some means involving (or not) the following details:
an unfooted shoe wedged somewhere around the brake pedal/someone fumbling around trying to put a disc of bluegrass music into the CD player/much medication (when I say 'much' I suggest - enough to topple a moose, but standard daily fare for nameless female whom, it seems, has built up some sort of supernatural tolerance over the many years of taking said meds). Whatever the facts, the accident put male nameless into the hospital, where he was mightily unhappy. This reference point comes up fairly often, as in, "Remember when she tried to kill me in the car??"

However, recently, male nameless has started to catch up on dings and dents, and there's been a surprising amount of 'who forgot who caused this scratch and who done that dent.' Several of the family (also remaining nameless) witnessed some auto transgressions, such as driver backing directly into a tree, pulling out into oncoming traffic, and the like. We tend to keep nameless male's incidents on the QT from nameles female, and vice versa. It's very hard to take a side.

It's very hard to realize you may be at the point of trying to keep someone from driving; a liberating entity in one's life since the teen years. It's a sad and difficult thing to contemplate, regarding one's favorite parents.

So there I was, sleeping restfully, when I felt a tap. It was Dad. "I need you to help me for a few minutes. I drove the car in the ditch."

I sat up half asleep, envisioning something very bad, and glad that he was obviously safe. The highway leading off 371 to their place is a winding, narrow, no shoulders, icy, curvy one, with lakes immediately on both sides. He said it wasn't far; I bundled up in some sweatshirts, and he tossed a big rusty chain into the back of the old truck and we drove off.

It was far less critical than what I was thinking. Just down the dirt road, (not on the highway, thank God), he'd sort of slid too far to the right, and gotten the car hung up in a high crusty snowbank. It looked to be pushable, and I'm surprisigly strong for a smallish twerp, but no, Dad wanted to pull it out with the truck. My job was to drive his car, in reverse, while he pulled it with the truck. After some minor fits and starts, it came loose from it's bank-wedge. Looked okay, except I noticed some damage on the right front fender. I thought it may have been an old car scar, but I mentioned it anyway, in case he needed an alibi for it.

It was still a fresh day, and I think the air helped my headache. We were having coffee at the kitchen table after, and Dad said, "If Mama asks about that damage on the car, is it okay if I tell her you did it?" He's mainly joking, but I nod. Small price to pay, today. We kids will have to figure something out, sooner rather than later. It's not something I'm looking forward to.