The Stranger in the Snow

Home is the place where, when you go there, they have to take you in.

Robert Frost

I’m a Coke drinker. And have been for about 35 years. Before that I was happy to go with Pepsi or Dr. Pepper or any number of name-brand imitations usually based on what was cheapest. But all that changed one winter morning.

I’d just paid a visit to our pediatrician. One of my small sons had  high fever, difficulty breathing, and general misery so severe it set off a panic alarm in my head. Our children’s pediatrician was excellent, but he was also clear across town—a 45 minute trip which I never undertook without serious motivation. The doc had examined my son, measured his temperature at 104°, and reassured me that I’d done the right thing making the expedition in spite of the snowstorm moving into the valley. He gave me several prescriptions—antibiotics for the strep, cough medicine, and maybe a tranquilizer for me? I can’t remember for sure.

Once home, I tucked my son in bed, administered more aspirin, spoon fed him a popsicle to soothe his throat, and gave my husband careful instructions about what to do if our little boy’s fever spiked again. Son #1 had seriously spooked us several years before when at the dinner table, he had plummeted off his chair with a seizure and febrile convulsions. After that, we’d been very careful to monitor our children’s temperatures when they were ill. Once I was reassured our little boy was sleeping, I headed out to the pharmacy at our local Albertsons.

It was a miserable day. My trip across town earlier had taken considerably longer than usual. Now the wind added to the cold and snow made the roads now almost impassable. When I pulled into the grocery store parking lot, mine was the only car in sight. Grabbing my coat’s hood with one gloved hand, I ducked my head into the gale and sighed in relief when the automatic doors slid quietly open for me. I dropped off the prescription and looked around behind me. The store was deathly quiet. It was positively eerie. The only sound came from a couple of clerks leaning against their cash register counters murmuring softly. Not a customer in sight.

The pharmacist was efficient; five minutes later he handed me my order while giving me the usual instructions. I hurried back outside. Now the wind was howling. Blowing snow covered even my recent tracks into the building. A Coke delivery truck had pulled up not far from my car, and the driver was unloading cases onto a dolly. His jacket was zipped up tightly under his chin, a scarf covered his face so that only his eyes showed above it. I nodded in his direction as I climbed into the car and turned over the key. There was a clicking sound, but not even a hint of ignition. I was a mechanic’s wife. I knew immediately the symptoms: I had left the lights on when I’d gone into the store. It was an old battery. Now it was completely dead. In frustration I turned the switch several more times, willing the engine to catch. Nothing.

I rested my head on the steering wheel, furious at my own stupidity. Calling my husband for help was impossible—he was home alone with our small son who needed the prescriptions on the seat beside me. Tears of frustration welled up in my eyes. Then I heard a knock at my window. It was the Coke guy. “Lady,” he said, “sounds like you could use some help. Do you need a jump?”

I started to cry in earnest. A stream of tears rolled down my cheeks as I signal a “yes”.

The truck driver rummaged around behind the seat of his vehicle and pulled out jumper cables a mile long. First hooking them onto the battery of his huge truck, he dragged the length of the cables to my car, making a trench in the snow. I hit the hood unlock button, and he squinted against the wind, cleaning swirling snow off the surface of the battery long enough to attach the cables. With a thumbs up, he motioned me to turn the key. The engine leaped into action without missing a beat.

“Oh, thank you, thank you,” I said as I rolled the window down and reached for my purse. I pulled out a $20 dollar bill—the only money I had left after buying the prescriptions. Leaning out the window, the cold bit at my face as I told him how much I appreciated his help and tried to hand him the $20 dollars. “My son is sick,” I said. “He needs his medicine.  You . . . .” I couldn’t speak through my tears of relief.

I think he smiled at me—I couldn’t tell for sure through the scarf covering his face. “Lady,” he said, “I’m glad I could help.” He gently closed my fist around the bill. “Just drink Coke next time you have a choice.” Then he saluted me, unhooked the cables, and lowered his head against the wind as he dragged them back to his truck. I never saw him again. But I’ve been drinking Coke for thirty five years. And every time I do, I thank the stranger in the snow.