Gunned the engine. It was no use. My truck was hopelessly stuck.
It had been snowing when I left for work but nothing like this. I’d never seen snow accumulate so fast, and we get some pretty serious snowstorms in Oklahoma. Visibility had dropped to nearly zero. That’s when the truck had fishtailed off the road.
I need to get home to call Stephanie, I suddenly thought. My 11-year old had spent the night at a friend’s house. She was supposed to get a ride home soon with the friend’s father. I’d have to warn them and let her know she’d need to stay another night. No way should anyone be out in this weather.
Luckily, I hadn’t driven too far yet. It would take me only about 15 minutes to walk back to the house. I’d call Stephanie—this was 1983, before cell phones—then let work know I wouldn’t be able to make it in. My husband, John, a ranch hand, had the day off. We’d come back later to dig out the truck. Hopefully, he’d already warned our daughter, but I couldn’t be sure. This storm was really spooking me.
I turned off the truck and stepped out onto the road. The wind rocked me back, and the driving snow stung my face. I held my purse out in front of me like a shield and started walking in the direction of the house.
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