A Far Gone Night by John Carenen Page A

could hear the wind and the sound of flakes against each other in the air and, maybe if the storm was as hearty as predicted, see gentle drifts here and there.
    All went well at The Grain, where attendance was a bit down, probably due to the impending storm. I introduced Ernie and Jan to Lunatic, Rachel, and a bunch of other people, including Gunther and Julie Schmidt (who had given birth to a big boy several months ago); and Olivia Olson, who was sitting with Molly Heisler . Arvid was there, lifelessly slumped over against a window and ignored by Clara, his wife; as were the Deputy Pals, Landsberger and Altemier , and a few acquaintances. We sat in a window booth and had Loony Burgers, fries, and one Three Philosophers each for Ernie and me. Jan had a glass of Coppola Rosso after taking a sip of Ernie’s Belgian ale and shaking her head. “Too strong,” she said. I explained Arvid .
    Our food arrived promptly and that’s how it was consumed, amid grunts from Ernie and a steady, “ Mmmm ” of appreciation from Jan.
    “We really should get going,” I said, looking out the window. The ground was now covered, white and smooth, unblemished in a thin, pristine blanket. And there was no letup in the storm. In fact, it had picked up in intensity and volume.
    “I wouldn’t mind waiting it out in this wonderful establishment,” Jan said, finishing her second glass of Rosso , “but we might have trouble getting to your drive and then making it up to the house.”
    “You Southerners,” I said, “this won’t slow me down, but I don’t think we should tempt fate.”
    “You’ve done enough of that,” Ernie said, nodding at me. “So, let’s go.”
    I left a big tip for Rachel Bergman, then we all drifted over to the bar and shook hands again with Lunatic. He directed his comment at the Timmons. “Please try to keep my pale friend out of trouble.”
    Without hesitation, Carl said, “Prayer helps, Lunatic.”
    With that, we stomped out through snow in the parking lot and headed for the truck, climbed in, and started for home. Seeing where the road was presented a minor challenge. The snow plows weren’t out yet, and where the road ended and the shoulder began was up for debate. Already, there must have been three or four inches on the ground. The blanket had become a quilt, and quickly.
    The snow squeaked as the big tires and serious weight of the truck pressed down on the storm’s fresh thickness. We heard the wind howl and Jan scrunched her shoulders like a little kid and exclaimed, “I love it!”
    I knew I would have good traction, but the trouble with getting back home now became the problem of dealing with the thickness of the storm, the snow swirling and pouring out from the heavens like a ripped-open goose-down mattress. Visibility became the issue.
    “Pretty hard to see,” Ernie said.
    “This is a beautiful storm,” Jan whispered reverently as we slowly met another truck edging down the street. He flashed his headlights as we passed, and we exchanged brief nods, the wildly-extroverted means by which Iowans say hello while driving. My heart soared like the hawk at his demonstration of brotherhood. I flipped on my headlights and flashers in response to his signal. Good to see, but good to be seen as well.
    “The first snowfall of the winter,” I said, and then I remembered another first snowfall of the previous winter, and Ruth VanderKellen’s request.
    Jan, who was sitting between Carl and me, said, “What?”
    I glanced to my right. She looked worried. I asked, “What ‘what’?”
    “Something passed across your face. Sadness, when you said this was the first snowfall of the winter. Why sad?”
    So I told them about Ruth and her leaving for California just as we were finding each other, and her gift of a cell phone and a note asking me to call her when the first snowfall came to Rockbluff County so I could describe it to her, and her promise to come back the following spring, and stay. Then I