Winter Warmth

It hadn't been snowing or very cold in Minneapolis when we left, headed home for Christmas break. But the closer we got to Iowa, the more trecherous the conditions became. The 80's Cavalier struggled to stay on the road, amidst the strong winds and the slippery roads. It was hard to see, so the rough-housing that Nathan and I were acccustomed to had to stop. No more teasing or half-arguing conversations.
He focused while we drove, each mile seeming to take longer than the last. "Are we going to your house or mine?" he asked. I was engaged to his brother, and hadn't seen him in four weeks, so I had no intentions of going home until I'd seen his face. "Your house," I said.
So Nathan decided he'd take the back way home. More direct, he'd said. Better roads, he'd said. I don't know what he meant by that, because it became clear that the back way wasn't better. We pushed through the drifts, the fingers of snow growing across each country highway with their ominous white claws. "We're not going to make it," I said.
"Shut up. We'll make it."
We were about one mile north of the farm, the warmth of the wood stove, the shelter from the wind, when I spotted a car in the ditch. Nathan spotted them too, only he didn't think they were in the ditch. He thought they were in the road. And so he veered toward them, solidly wedging that tiny car into a huge drift.
We pushed a little before he decided it was a lost cause. He got out to help the people in the ditch, who ended up being his dad and a neighbor girl.
After quick evalutation, it becae clear that there would be no pulling the cars clear tonight. We would walk.
I had my clothes for a month of break in the back of the car, so I added a pair of socks and pulled a pair of sweats over my pants. I bundled up in what winter gear I'd brought along, and then, the four of us stranded passengers headed toward home.
The wind had been so fierce, it had been hard to open the car door against it. Now, we walked through, completely exposed to the prairie wind, whipping across the fields.
We made it to a farm house, worried a little about frost bite and freezing, and we stepped onto the porch. This was before everyone carried cell phones, so the father sent me into the vacant house to search for a phone to call home. When I tried to call, nothing happened. And then, headlights in the driveway.
TThankfully, country neighbors are an understanding bunch. We got a ride home in their truck the rest of the way, and arrived at the farm, only partially frozen.
I'd pressed through it all, knowing I would see my love when we arrived. But he did not come to greet me like I'd expected. We came inside, and his mom told me that he had gone to my house in town to wait for me to get home. He'd have to stay the night there, and I'd stay the night at his house. Safe from the storm, but apart from each other.
I think about that night so often, when we arrive at my in-laws on wintery nights and find warmth in the fire. It's a vivid memory, every part of that night and the following day. The warmth of a home in the middle of winter, that welcoming feeling like you're home, even though it's not your home. That's something I want to offer to others. It's something I cherish, and even though we don't have to travel more than five minutes to get there anymore, it still feels like coming home to a long-lost friend when we go home to the farm