The Big Chill

Mike and I are watching this 1985 movie tonight--while it's in the single digits in North Georgia.

I drove in on Monday night and was just 20 miles from Mike's when he (driving to meet me on the Interstate to guide me over the black ice in the dark) spun himself on the ice and wound up in the ditch.  We were talking on the phone when it happened, he telling me to pull into the parking lot at Dad's Diner, when suddenly I heard an expletive, then the phone went to static.  We were a mile apart at the time and I called his name over and over, but he didn't hear me because he had passed out in the accident.

Somehow he wound up in the backseat and suffered bruises and sore shoulders, but he's overall okay. The truck is quite badly damaged, but we made it back to Brown Mule Farm by ten.  Carlene and Mike had both been calling all day, cautioning me about the ice storm.  I was intent on getting here and--foolishly--kept driving, oblivious to the seriousness of black ice until I got close and the ice got thicker and trees were snapping in the weight of the ice.

Except for the truck and Mike's bruises, we're okay--but I have a new respect for ice on the roads.  If I could do it again, I'd do things differently.