Washed Away...
But the traffic? It's relative. Yes, it's annoying that so many cars are now roaring back and forth on the road that I have to look before jaywalking. Curiosity, more than heartache, makes me wonder, if there's only another 300 or so houses past DeHart's, and no businesses, no outlet to the rest of Alaska, why there's a constant stream of traffic.
My apartment is on the Curve in the Road. Before they built Egan Expressway, it was just The Road from Town to the End. Road left Town, went pretty straight along Gastineau Channel, meandered a bit in the Valley, rose in a hill coming out of that last meadow, that hill slipped down to Auke Lake, past Fritz Cove Road, and then, this sharp curve. Many used to end up in the ditch there, mostly in the winter or rain.
Now it's all very civilized. Your final resting place, the ditch, has been piped for sewage, covered with a sidewalk, and the road is paved. But there's still plenty of tire sounds right outside my bedroom window. I've checked the building's exterior for concussion marks.
I awoke early today at the sound of those tires. One car went by, very fast. Crazy in this snow, I thought as I snuggled down further in my nest. Inch after inch of light, dry snow has been falling all week. Another car tore past. Then I remembered: a terrible forecast for today, rain.
I slunk into the living room and peered out the windows. The dreaded slush covered the parking lot. The trees are mostly dark again, their whipped cream covers washed away. Those cars, freed from their sloppy snow drag, zip along.
Let them enjoy themselves for the moment. Weather forecast on the radio: wind, rain, snow through next week. I'd had a sense of foreboding last night walking back from the bus stop. The tree branches were so heavy with snow; even the slightest breeze started mini-avalanches. The tree is a big sneaky schoolyard bully, and you're the asthmatic four-eyed kid as that cold dump lands on your head and trickles down your neck. I managed to get into my place with only a face blasting or two of hard ice crystals. But I knew something was coming.
I'm reminded of a conversation that I had last week. Standing on the street, admiring the lovely scene - Christmas lights twinkling, lazy flakes falling, puffy white hats on everything from roofs to hydrants - I commented to a man, "Isn't this gorgeous? I love winter!"
He scowled. "Yeah, we'll see."
Alaskans like control of their destinies. That's why they're here. And if there's anything that takes that control away, it's winter.