What a two weeks it's been! Started out rather inauspiciously: after a late start driving down I-57 to Memphis for Folk Alliance (having planned to stop at our usual halfway point of Mt. Vernon, IL), and a dinner break in Shampoo-Banana--er, Champaign-Urbana--we resumed our drive in what appeared to be (unpredicted) light snow, so light that it had been unnecessary to even clear the snow off the car after dinner. The dashboard gauge read 29F; but then, the wind picked up and the snow turned heavier and wetter. Suddenly, we began to skid. (Steve was driving, since I'd had half a glass of chardonnay at dinner and his quaff of choice is coffee, as strong as can be). He righted the car and we continued straight for a few seconds before we began to fishtail wildly. As valiantly as he tried to steer out, it was impossible: we began to spin out (in Olympic parlance, about 720 degrees) before sliding off on to the shoulder, down an embankment, through a barbed-wire fence, and landing in a buzz-cut cornfield sporting eight inches (at least) of snow. Right side up. No aerials, as the freestyle-ski commentators would have put it.
Steve put the engine into park but kept the motor on for heat. (Fortunately, we'd gassed up before dinner. Insert fart joke here). Hearts pounding, lungs panting, we looked at each other. "You okay?" we asked each other simultaneously--and in unison sighed and nodded "yup." After a moment of silence (and a murmured Shehechyanu in thanksgiving), we turned to each other. "If we don't at least get a song out of this," I said, "we're in the wrong da*n business." We both guffawed and reached for our cellphones (mine with GPS) and called 911 and his insurance company. (I said a second thanksgiving that I had not been driving--first, because I'd have panicked and the results would have been far direr; second, because there might be a breathalyzer involved--and all Steve had to drink for days had been black coffee and lots of it; third, that there had been no other drivers around us; fourth, that there were no trees or ponds; and fifth, that it was a flimsy barbed-wire fence and not a wooden fence, stone wall, K-curb or metal guardrail we'd encountered). Before the state police could arrive, a nice young man with a pickup truck appeared and offered to tow us up on to the shoulder. We all took turns rocking and pushing, but we were mired just too deeply in the snow to get us close enough to his tow-strap and he could not get his truck backed up close enough without miring himself as well. The state trooper arrived and we turned to thank our good Samaritan, but he left before we could even get his name. We're dedicating "Where Did the Good Man Go?" to him in our liner notes.
The trooper took note of the Wisconsin plates on Steve's Pontiac Vibe after giving us our exact map coordinates and contacting the nearest available tow-operator who'd take insurance and/or plastic. We asked him how bad it was out there in his experience, as we had counted about ten salt-and-plow trucks go by as we waited, only to watch the west crosswind blow the snow eastward back on to and the salt off the road as soon as each truck passed. "Pretty bad," he replied, "about a dozen accidents so far tonight. All in a day's work." We asked him to elaborate on how many crashes. He answered, "You guys are the mildest accident so far. About four Wisconsin cars--none of'em hit anyone, only one flipped but landed upright. Some damaged, only one driveable besides yours. No injuries. The Illinois ones? Coupla two-car crashes, one into a tree, and three rollovers. None of 'em driveable. Had to call EMS for a couple." Not saying anything about the relative merits of Pontiac Vibes, AWD, or Wisconsin vs. Illinois drivers.....just sayin'.
Tow operator finally arrived and looked at the car--just some scratches on the bumper and front of the hood where the barbed-wire fence suffered the injury to its dignity. He surmised what had happened was because of the temperature and the snow texture, the snow had begun to collect and compact in the tire treads and freeze, turning the tires into virtual Indy-car "racing slicks." We hit several patches of black ice beneath the snow, and didn't have a chance. We'd done everything right, per high school Driver Ed., but some road hazards can be avoided only by staying off the roads and inside one's living room. (Of course, en route to a show, I believe in pressing on--there's always at least one fan who's braved awful conditions--sometimes, as on Dec 23, from a very long distance--to come and be entertained, and we performers owe them our all, even for an audience of one, so long as the venue is open and there's power).
After some ominous jerks and groans, we finally felt ourselves towed back up on to the shoulder. The trooper told us we were just north of Arcola, with the closest town to the south likely to have lodging being Mattoon. We called the Holiday Inn in Mt. Vernon, and after they grumbled that we should have called them before 6pm to get a refund and we pointed out that we didn't run off the road till after 9:30, they grudgingly agreed not to charge us for our rooms. We practically crawled those 12 miles south to Mattoon, car shimmying as the chunks of compacted snow and ice in our wheel-wells (as the trooper and tow guy had advised us) slowly worked their way loose, and semis and SUVs zooming past and honking at us. We gratefully pulled into the parking lot of a Holiday Inn Express which--till we found ourselves at the front desk--we weren't entirely sure was not a mirage. Thus (wishing I'd a Valium and/or a drink but settling for decaf and a hunk of chocolate), we repaired to our rooms, phoned home (carefully explaining our late arrivals).....and so to bed. (At least I did---Steve stayed up in his room multitasking--working on his next song for FAWM--February Album Writing Month--writing, blogging, etc).
Two hours later I awoke, unable to sleep, lyrics swimming to the surface--I hauled out my trusty Sheaffer Snorkel and journal, set them down in my groggy stupor and then slept fitfully till breakfast time. Neatened up the rhyme and syntax, headed down to breakfast, and sang it a cappella for a tableful of fellow tourists (who'd asked what I was doing) and the day manager (the night manager'd requested I bring down the dulcimer but had already gone). They laughed, so I know something good---besides unscathed survival--had come of Steve & Sandy's Excellent Adventure the night before.
As Orlando folksinger-songwriter Doug Spears put it a couple of days later, "You know, in MY part of the world, people drive hundreds of miles and pay good money for a ride like that!"
More to come, but I'm beat--my first full day home (to several domestic physical injury crises, but I'll explain those later; you've probably already read about 'em in Facebook).