I love snow. Like most Southerners, I find the novelty exciting and beautiful. The dogs and I romp, laughing and barking like maniacs. My yard is flat, which is a plus right up until I want to slide down a snowy hill on a cardboard box. It’s just no fun to sit on rapidly dampening paper waiting for a ride that never happens.

I was thrilled with our afternoon snow last week. When a nighttime repeat was predicted over the weekend though, it was a different story. We turned the lights off and went to bed expecting to wake to a couple of inches of winter wonder. Instead of being happy, I lay awake and prayed. If God would just let it rain instead of snow, I promised, I would stop cussing in traffic. I’d stop pretending to sleep through the dogs whining to go outside in the middle of the night so that Hubby had to get up, and I’d learn how to iron.

I don’t love the snow if I have to drive in it, and a little dog across town was expecting me bright and early the next morning. I trembled at the thought of making that drive if it snowed. I tried it about 10 years ago, and the results were not good.

Hubby and I had a wonderful old Pontiac Parisienne in those days. It was a tank of a car, disreputable looking and without a reverse gear, but it was what we could afford, and we loved it. During Christmas, I found myself running back and forth between four different pet households. That’s pretty normal for the holidays, but that time it snowed. I was an intrepid young pet-sitter, and taking a page from the mail carriers’ manual, I was determined that neither snow nor a couple of inches of ice would keep me from my appointed rounds.

Everything was OK until I topped a hill going out of town. I looked down the incline and knew that I was doomed. I patted the brakes just so that I could tell Hubby that I’d tried, but I knew it was hopeless. Sure enough, I aimed right and the car slid left. I sighed and went along for the ride. It was a smooth, smooth glide across a huge sheet of ice, right up until I hit the tree line on the side of the road.

Somehow, I managed to sail through the only open space in the woods, barely missing trees on either side. But I went down a steep embankment and came to rest out of sight of the road. The engine was still running, and I was uninjured. I considered just staying in the warmth of the car until spring or until Hubby came looking for me, whichever came first. But soon thoughts of ax murderers stalking through the snowy woods changed my mind, and I got out and started climbing.

A Good Samaritan called the police, and soon there were sirens and squad cars and ambulances and fire trucks everywhere. It was impressive how determined to save me the emergency personnel were. While I was telling a nice policeman which tow company I preferred, I heard heavy footsteps approaching from all directions. The firemen and EMS guys had me surrounded.

“Oh, hi, fellows! Thanks for coming out, but I’m not injured!” I greeted them brightly.

They looked at one another, and then they looked down the cliff at the car resting uncomfortably on its nose at the bottom. One of them looked at my britches, which were indeed bloody at the knees. I’d tripped on my climb out of the wilderness. Exchanging knowing glances, they pulled on latex gloves with satisfied “snnnapp!”s and descended on me in an ever-tightening ring. I got looked over - but good.

I rode home in the wrecker. The driver unhooked the Parisienne, told me once more how lucky I was, accepted Hubby’s check and drove away. Later in the day, after the ice melted, I made it down that hill with no problem. The only signs of my earlier trouble were tire tracks in the snow, disappearing down the embankment, and half a roll of duct tape holding the driver’s-side mirror onto the car.

I prayed hard enough to keep the snow at bay last weekend, and as I set out in the rain I remembered my adventure a little more fondly, and said a silent thank you to the Parisienne, up in Car Heaven, for keeping me between the trees. And so far, I’ve cussed in traffic only once.