This winter took us all by surprise. Some pull together and try to cheer each other up. Others stay on their private beaten path and try to “white knuckle it” to get through the day.
Each night as I drive home up the hill and slow to turn onto the side road, the white-knuckle people must follow me home. My side street must be taken seriously. It has a permanent sheet of misshapen gouged ice. The lane is narrowed to barely fit me and the car trying to pull out onto the road. We, both cars, must look out for young children walking dogs, deer and turkeys.
Idyllic, except for that white-knuckle driver, knucklehead, who won’t slow down even a smidgen to the posted speed limit. Give a hoot, please, and let me turn in without running up my rear bumper, forcing me into an accident.
Here’s to the knuckleheads.