Winter Batman

While driving home in the middle of a blizzard the other night, I reminisced of days without cell phones. Back then, no one called for a tow truck if they managed to get hammer-stuck in a snowbank. Instead, they threw on a ski mask, mitts, and started digging. With a bit of luck, a friendly passerby might stop and help push. That's what tough-as-nuts Minnesotans do in blizzards. You strap the kids in the back of the family station wagon, and start buckin’ through snowdrifts across the plains of North Dakota on the way to Grandma’s farmhouse. The familiar sound of snow scraping the underbelly of the car causing us to swerve off course, clipping the edge of the ditch. Nothing to hold back the whirlwinds of snow but a couple of crooked corn stalks left behind from the combines. No margin of error on the double track gravel road to the farm as the slightest swerve to the right or left of the mounded centerline sent drivers straight into the ditch.

One year, Old Man Winter had our number. When visibility got swallowed up by a white squall, Dad hopped out to lead by foot while Mom took the wheel. Eventually, our car surrendered to the storm, leaving us stranded, cockeyed in the ditch, with exhaust seeping through the floor. No way to contact help, so we bundled-up under a blanket in the backseat listening to Mom and Dad come up with a plan. As Jack Frost crept into our boots, a faint light peered through the storm, accompanied by a distant rumbling. Slowly, a shape came into focus, a Batman figure hauling a 100-pound chain slung over his shoulder. Behind him shone the lights of a beat-up pickup truck with a cattle guard welded to the grill in the shape of a permanent frown, threatening to mess anything up that dare cross its path. The massive machine rocked back and forth to the pulse of an irregular idle, mean enough to yank 30 oxen out of a swamp without even touchin’ the gas. My mother gasped with relief at the sight of her brother. Mike was normally our jovial, fun loving, mustache-smiling uncle with a cackling laugh loud enough to be heard two counties away, but today, he was Winter Batman. After clanging around under the car, he gave a quick tug on the chain with all his weight that jerked our heads back. The glint in my eye locked on Dad and Winter Batman taking on the storm together, pages unfolding of a larger-than-life comic book. Trudging through snow like a couple of hulking water buffalo, ice dangling from their beards, displaying a degree of brute manliness that sat me right back down in my twelve-year-old booster seat.

From that day forward, I couldn’t count the days fast enough until my mamby-pamby peach fuzz face grew into something worth shaving. Memories of youth, details probably a little skewed, but integrity of the message still intact. I feel fortunate to have experienced life that way, as opposed to the modern day equivalent of a hired stranger flopping out of his company tow truck to pull the green lever while scarfing down the last bite of doughnut. A few minutes later, the powdered sugar faced man slips the bill through the window. Dad grumbling under his breath as he cuts a $200 check for someone to pull a stupid lever. All the while, kids glued to their devices in the backseat with headphones blaring. I still remember when Winter Batman went head-to-head with Old Man Winter. Thanks for setting the bar Uncle Mike!