That morning on February 5, I was going to Kalamazoo to meet with a writer friend for lunch where we’d talk about our writing projects, and then to my half-hour appointment at 4:45 p.m. Afterward, the drive home would be a 45-minute trip, on an already busy highway (I-94) during rush hour. There was a weather alert for 2-5 inches of snow to begin about 7 p.m.
Figuring I’d be home long before the snow began, I put on my shoes, the last thing I do before going out the door. My little voice said, “Put on your boots.”
“Boots? But there’s no snow on the ground,” I argued, “and I’ll be home before the first flake falls.”
“Take the boots.”
Usually, I listen to my Little Voice. This time I didn’t.
As I sat in my appointment chair later that afternoon, I looked out the window.
Not a lot. So light, I could barely see them.
By the time I left half an hour later, everything was covered with snow. As I walked to my car, my shoes slid on the icy, slicker-than-normal snow already an inch thick.
A mile down the four-lane divided road, a car on the opposite side turned to cross our side, crossing directly in front of two cars. We were all sliding, trying to stop.
BOOM! Two of the cars collided. Fortunately, my lane wasn’t blocked.
Another mile later, I entered the first highway. Thankfully the traffic was sparse despite it being rush hour. I say thankfully because I slid a bit into the other lane as I moved off the ramp onto the highway. I was only going 35 mph, but even that was too fast for the slick road.
My next highway—I-94—was traffic heavy. Seeing a gap in traffic, I scooted over to the lane next to the far-left lane to avoid all the cars coming onto the highway because of rush hour. I was in a safe place considering the slick roads and the massive amount of traffic.
Immediately, I saw spinning blue lights on the other side of the highway.
A major wreck had traffic at a standstill. For sixteen miles. And, miles and miles of more traffic would be adding to that length. Along those miles, there had been other additional accidents.
While I passed several single-car slide accidents on my side of the highway, where they had slid into the concrete wall, our side’s traffic wasn’t at a standstill or delayed. Yet.
My goal now was to keep a good distance between those cars in front of me and those behind me. As usual, it was the four-wheel trucks that were racing by. Everyone else, semis included, was going 35 mph or slower.
Finally getting home after an hour and a half that should have been a forty-minute drive, I kicked off my wet, snowy shoes.
My boots laughed at me. My Little Voice said, “Told ya.”
“Yeah, I know,” I told them. “I should have listened.”
That Little Voice really is all-knowing. It’s never been wrong. EVER
Big or small, I know better than to ignore that Little Voice. It knows. Always.