On the night after it snowed last week, I figured it would be a tough drive home. After all, that morning, the highways had been slow-going, with ice on the bridges and inexperienced drivers on the shoulder talking to police officers about their damaged fenders.
In reality, though, it was a pleasant drive home after dark. With all the slush and salt on the roads, it was like a drive through Margaritaville. The hard ice was nearly gone, traffic was light because a lot of people had stayed home, and – best of all – I caught green lights all the way home.
That’s a lot of green, let me tell you. The lights start at my work and keep on for many blocks after that. Then, out on the highway, there are more lights as I approach the interstate.
To make it worse, there seems to be no logic to the way the lights are programmed. No sooner do I pick up speed from one just-turned-green light than I have to slow down for the next, which has just turned red.
I normally spend more time burning gas at intersections than I do at top speed on the highway.
That was a magical night, however. (Can you say that, Atlanta?) Buildings were white with snow, but traffic lights glowed green all the way – even when I left the interstate and turned 90 degrees right to get onto another road.
Lights on the smaller road kept up the fluidity, and when I got on the two-lane road I live on, it was all downhill – literally. I coasted until turning into my subdivision, then onto my street. I rolled into our driveway, feeling like a race car driver who leaps onto his roof or throws back a jug of milk. Green lights all the way!
That green-light frenzy has occurred only once before. If the lights worked like that instead of against me each night, the commute would be more pleasant.
By the time you read this, the snow will be history, the Super Bowl will be over and our youngest grandchild will be a week into her fourth year. Reagan just had a birthday.
When her mother told Reagan, “Today’s your birthday. You’re 4 now,” Reagan looked worried.
“Can – can I still play?” she asked.
Her birthday party had to be delayed because of sickness in the family, but her parents gave her some of her gifts anyway.
Reagan, who has not learned yet to share well, took her new toys and said something to the effect of: “OK, I’m going to be grumpy now, so don’t anybody play with me.”
When her mom told her the party would be held the next weekend, Reagan sounded confused: “So I’ll be 5 then?”
The snow fell, and her mother asked whether she wanted to go outside to build a snowman.
“Mama,” Reagan admonished her, “you know we don’t have any carrots in our yard.”
I love being grandfathered into Reagan’s world, which is a green light on life’s daily commute.