Fairview to Orchard

I wake up before the alarm, 4:27 glowing on the clock. Three minutes to spare.

Linda’s still asleep, curled toward my side like always, so I slide out of bed slow so I don’t wake her.

The floor’s cold on my feet, but that’s nothing new for a storm morning.

I stand up and my knees remind me I’m not a kid anymore, just a little stiffness to work through.

I head toward the window and look out at Fairview Ave.—the snow’s just starting, and the salt trucks are already moving.

They say we’re getting a historic blizzard today, supposed to rival the storm of ’77, and oh boy, that one was a killer.

This week marks my forty-ninth year at the job at North Creek DPW. I’ve been the longest-tenured guy there ever since Old Tom Phillips hung it up back in 2004.

I wash up and get dressed, nothing fancy—just my old Bills sweatshirt and the same work pants I wear every storm.

On my way to the kitchen I pass the old kindergarten portraits of the kids, all five of them lined up on the hallway wall.

Jimmy’s first—always the big helper, carrying everybody’s backpack like it was nothing.

Sarah with her crooked smile. Tough as nails now, but she cried every time someone else got hurt.

Tom, the quiet one, always a big thinker.

Emily holding her crayon box like it was treasure. She still keeps everything neat as a pin.

And little Ben, grinning so wide you couldn’t stay in a bad mood around him if you tried.

Five kids, nine grandkids, and another two on the way. Not bad for a guy who started out with a one-bedroom apartment over on Maple.

I pour myself a cup of black coffee and pop an English muffin in the toaster.

Before I head out, I set Linda’s tea on the counter the way she likes it and switch on the little space heater by her chair. She’s always cold in the mornings.

I sit down and lace up my boots, double knot like always. I lay my hand on the doorframe for a second. House is quiet, warm. Good.

I pull on my coat and step outside. The cold hits me clean in the face. Most folks hate mornings like this, but I’ve always liked the cold—wakes you up, lets you know you’re still here.

Snow’s coming down steadier now, tapping on my hood as I walk to the truck.

I start her up, let the engine warm a minute, then drive over to the DPW garage like I’ve done ten thousand times before.

Place is half lit when I get there, a couple of the other rigs are already gone.

I pull out my work button-down—the one with “Ray” stitched on it, though the Y’s hanging on by a thread—and button it over my sweatshirt.

My plow’s sitting in the same spot it’s been for years, waiting on me.

Before I head out, I check the tire on Jake’s plow—the kid’s fresh out of high school and I doubt he could change one in this weather—and it’s a little low, so I top it off.

I climb up into my vehicle and let her rumble awake.

Once the windows clear, I roll out of the garage and ease onto Main. Hardly any lights on, just the diner sign flickering like it does when the wind picks up.

Most of the storefronts are empty these days—paper on the windows, FOR LEASE signs that’ve been fading for years—but the streets still need clearing, same as always. I take the first right, past the old gristmill that burned down a while back.

Town’s quiet, almost too quiet, but it’s home. I’ve been plowing these same roads nearly half a century. I know every crack and corner better than I know my own hand.

Wind starts to pick up, pushing the snow sideways so it’s hard to see more than a couple car lengths ahead.

But this isn’t my first rodeo—I’ve driven through worse and come out fine.

I take the bend by the Little League field, the lights long gone but the fences still standing. Spent plenty of evenings out there coaching the kids when they were small.

A few blocks down, I pass St. Mark’s. Linda and I got married there in ’78. Funny how some places stay put, and you’re the one who keeps moving on.

Then I roll by what’s left of the old McKinnon Hardware Factory. My dad and his dad both punched the clock there. Doors have been shut a long time now.

I turn onto Jordan Street and for a split second my vision blurs, like I looked away without meaning to.

I must’ve used the decaf this morning by accident.

I crack the window, and the cold air hits me quick, then smooths out, like it’s leveling me off.

Things fall back into place, so I keep driving and turn right onto Orchard Lane.

Up ahead, a deer steps out onto the road, slow as Sunday, and just stands there in my lane.

I ease off the gas and watch it. I’ve seen plenty of deer in my time, never paid much mind to them, but this one’s different—tall, calm, fearless.

Most times they bolt the second they see the plow, but this one just looks at me, right in the eyes, like it’s got all the time in the world.

Pretty thing, too. Makes you forget about the storm for a second.

In the blink of an eye the deer’s gone, like it was never there, and I roll on down the same old road I’ve driven my whole life.

Just then, the snow starts to let up. It stops—clean.

Odd, considering the weather folks were calling for two, maybe three feet last night. Shows what they know. There’s barely six inches on the ground.

And now the wind’s easing up too. Not slowing—quitting. One minute it’s howling, next minute it’s dead still, like someone shut it off.

Sky looks a shade lighter than it should for this hour, and I swear the air feels warmer on my face, just by a hair.

I reach over to flick on the radio, figuring maybe the weather report will clear things up, but all I get is static.

For a second I think about swinging back to the garage, checking in with the guys, seeing if they’re noticing this weird morning too.

But then something comes over me—quick, warm, whole—and I’m not just remembering. I’m there. Two places at once, like the world split open for me.

Jimmy and Sarah are in the yard, chasing each other around the old maple, laughing so hard they can’t breathe.

Tom and Emily are sitting on the driveway with their chalk buckets, drawing crooked houses and stick-figure dogs all over the concrete.

And little Ben’s in Linda’s arms, tiny as a loaf of bread, her swaying with him like she always did when he fussed.

I’m at the grill flipping burgers and hot dogs, watching all of them, the smoke curling up into a bright blue sky.

It’s Sunday. Warm. Perfect.

I can hear every laugh, smell the charcoal, feel the sun on my shoulders—like it’s all happening right now, not thirty years ago.

Then the yard slips away, the kids and Linda fade like the tail end of a dream, and I’m back in the truck on Orchard Lane.

Only now I notice my hands aren’t on the wheel.

The truck’s moving on its own, steady as ever, like it knows where it’s going better than I do.

The sun’s up higher than it should be, bigger, round, and golden, like it swallowed the whole sky. The light pours over everything, bright but soft, not the kind that hurts your eyes. Colors look sharper, cleaner. The old houses on the street don’t look worn anymore; the paint seems fresh, the bricks deeper red, the snow glowing instead of dull.

And then the truck just isn’t there. No rumble under me, no wheel in my hands. I’m standing in the middle of the road, and it feels natural, like this is exactly where I’m supposed to be.

I start walking.

Don’t know when I decided to, or why, but my legs carry me easy, lighter than they’ve felt in years.

I don’t hear my knee pop or my back creak, none of the old aches have followed me.

I feel younger.

Stronger.

Like I dropped a weight I didn’t know I’d been hauling around.

Time feels strange.

There’s no reaching for memories.

They’re all here with me, close as breath.

Every bit of beauty I ever lived through:

my kids laughing,

Linda leaning her head on my shoulder, a

warm summer morning—it’s all right beside me

I keep walking down this familiar street, though it doesn’t feel old or tired now.

And every step I take, I feel comforted… loved… steady…content, like the entire universe fits just right around me.

I keep walking, and there it is—my house, right in the middle of the street like it’s been waiting for me all along.

The doors are wide open, warm light spilling out across the road.

Somewhere inside, clear as day,

I hear my name called, "Ray."

I smile.

I’m home.