In order to get my tires, which were stored in the garage that used to be a carriage house, I had to climb a 2-foot snowbank.  The roads have been clear of snow for some time and most of the driveway is clear.  It was time to change out the snow tires.

The garage doors were easy to open, but the snowbank made it embarrassing, being so high up.  There I was balancing on the bank in my walking shoes, reaching for the door in the snow, to pull it open.

Each tire was packaged in a plastic bag from the last changeover.  There were 4 tires.  I maneuvered each one past my Musical Instrument Dreams furniture, around the little MG someone always stores here for the winter, and through the narrow path of my brother's bike and gardening tools that spilled out the narrow aisle by the front door.

The day was blowing and cold enough so I did not fall through the snow bank, but depending on where I stood, I still got snow in my shoes.  My little car waited quietly on the other side, doors wide open.

How to carry the tires?  I didn't want to roll them because I didn't want them to get wet.  I couldn't carry one in each arm because of my footing on the snow.  So I hauled them out one by one, careful not to swipe dirt on my clothes.

Earlier that day, I called the shop to ask whether I could arrive after work, say around 4:45 to have my tires changed. This was to avoid the need for someone to drive me back and forth to the shop.  Sure, they said, bring them in.  We close at 6.  But would that be enough time?  Not to worry, they said.  We stay open until all the jobs are finished.

I brought enough to keep me going for the long wait, but after a long day working, I was spent and could not concentrate on anything.  The oily warehouse of tires from floor to ceiling caught my throat. 

The first book I opened was a small, slim hardcover handbook on the sport of curling, titled: Curling, an Authoritative Handbook on the Techniques and Strategy of the Ancient Game of Curling.   We had just finished the season, and I wanted to brush up on my techniques including strategy.  Copyright, 1962.

The first page described one women's championship award: a tub of laundry detergent.  Oh, boy.  I opened the other book.

The crowd thinned as the afternoon moved toward closing.  And then, it was just me.  I tried not to look at the young man by the counter who asked when I arrived: who allowed you to arrive so late?  It was well past closing.  I had long ago put all my books away. 

They started moving all the big he-man tires into the shop from the outside display.  They shut the front doors.  Some of the workmen walked past me with their lunch buckets.  They didn’t make eye contact.

Finally, a young man with a small goatee and a navy-blue cap, called my name.   

At 7:00 pm, I pulled out.  The wind was whipping and raw.  I don’t think I’ll ever pull this stunt again, though it’s a nice feeling to finally have the car fit for warmer weather. 

The next morning I awoke to a 3-inch snowfall.