I’m sitting on the couch under a blanket with a cat at my side looking out at the whiteness that the Chicago sky is becoming. They say this will be a winter storm unlike any other. Harumph. Like many of my writing and reading friends, I was supposed to be on a flight to Washington, DC, tomorrow (Wednesday) to participate in the Association of Writers and Writing Programs (awpwriter.org) annual conference.
Alas. United has cancelled all flights out of O’Hare through Thursday morning. I will miss the first panel I was scheduled to be on—Trading Stories with the Enemy: Navigating the Cuban/American Literary Landscape. (Ever notice how all academic panels have to have a colon somewhere in the middle of the title?) I’m hoping my co-presenters Achy Obejas and Kristin Dykstra will make it on time though. Noon on Thursday. If you are there at AWP-DC, go give them support.
I hate snow. I mean, I really, really hate snow. And today I am reminded of why. I can remember the 67 blizzard here in Chicago (gives you an idea of how really old I am.) My brothers and I were home alone for a while because our folks could not get back from their jobs. Was it a night? Two nights? Were we afraid? I don’t remember that, but I do remember a snow drift that swept up the side of our house nearly to the second story window. I didn’t know quite enough to hate hate snow just yet, and I thought that—a house-high drift—was pretty cool. Thought maybe I could slide down it. Lucky for me my older, wiser brothers probably knew that wasn’t such a good idea.
The first car accident I was ever in was because of that storm. We (Dad driving, Mom shotgun, me in the backseat with at least one brother) got snow-stuck backing out of our driveway in the path of an on-coming car. No real damage, but scary for a little girl who saw the other car coming and coming, unable to stop on the slick road before it plowed into the rear panel of our sedan. But cars were made of stronger stuff back then, so the panel concaved and that was it. I don’t remember that we were even bumped around much.
This would be the sort of anecdote that my brother Roger would say I got all wrong. Two years older than me, he was always certain his memory was better than mine. Maybe it was. He died five months ago—too soon, too soon—and I miss him greatly. He was a cab driver, and this would be the sort of day when he would either make bundles of money, or would call me from one of his dozen or so cell phones to complain about no one being out, no fares to be had. He was a remarkable snow driver. No fear.
My mother (Sylvia McNair, 1924 – 2002) would have remembered MY FIRST ACCIDENT differently than I do, too, no doubt. “That’s not how it happened,” she’d say. Still, when it came to my stories, I had no greater supporter. She gave me writing assignments when I was a little girl, gave me a prompt on her way out the door when she left for work: write about a cat with blue ears, a boy who loved dandelions. “You have to write that,” she’d say whenever I told her something. She even chose my full name, Patricia Ann McNair, by imagining it on the cover of a book.
It’s there now, Mom, on the cover of my story collection, The Temple of Air by Patricia Ann McNair.
I have a box-load of postcards with the book cover on them, ready to hand out to every person I see at AWP. You, friendly blog reader, can have one, two if you want. If only I can get there.