The perils of being a grown up

In 1973, Atlanta had one of its worst ice storms on record. Up to five inches of ice covered everything with a thick coating of glaze. It knocked down power lines and pine trees alike.  Some parts of my suburban hometown of Marietta, Georgia didn’t have electricity for two weeks. It was a disaster. People shivered by their fireplaces. Tuna fish and peanut butter became the food of the times. There is nothing redeeming about an ice storm. Absolutely nothing. It was a winter blunderland.

That morning my sisters and I slid outside to behold the glistening world around us. I remember the garage door opening and our old Impala station wagon (the kind with the third seat that faced to the rear) firing up and sliding back out into the driveway.  We didn’t have school. But my dad had to drive into Atlanta to go into work.

We stood in the street and watched as his car fish-tailed all the way up the hill of our road and on to the interstate. It was at that moment that I realized being an adult must really suck.

This morning I thought about my dad and his perilous icy drive.  I left my son playing his video game (yes, we still have power) as I braved Isaac’s gusty winds and driving rains. I dodged falling limbs and flooded roads.  I’ll admit — I was envious of my son. And I was envious of the little kid from 1973 who got to stay home while his daddy slid into work.