Russian Blond in the American Snow Storm

My first few months of driving in America went almost uneventfully—aside from running a few red lights and accidentally driving on the wrong side of the road.

Then, in September of 1996, a snowstorm hit Kansas City and the surrounding areas. The sky turned gray, and the snowflakes, larger and fluffier than cotton balls, covered the car from the front, the sides, and the back. I rushed to pick up my son from school early, only to find myself stuck in traffic. Slowly inching forward on Shawnee Mission Parkway, I realized I had a problem: my visibility was getting worse while I frantically searched for the wipers button.

Slowly inching forward on Shawnee Mission Parkway, I realized I had a problem: my visibility was getting worse while I frantically searched for the wiper button, twisting a knob that seemed promising—nothing happened. I panicked. Are they frozen? Is the snow too heavy?

The world outside of my car had turned into a swirling blur of white, while I continued moving forward blind. At least I saw what was inside. That was the time without cellphones in each car. Okay, stay calm. Just find the wiper button. It has to be here somewhere. I ran my fingers over every switch and lever near the steering wheel, pressing and pulling anything that seemed remotely useful. Still nothing.

"Gosh! Why didn’t I ever ask what all these buttons do?" I imagined myself completely buried under the snow—or worse, ending up in a ditch.

I had no choice. I rolled down the window. The icy wind slapped me in the face, sharp and unforgiving. It feels like home. I liked snow, but I had never driven in Russia. My hair was already damp.

Stretching my arm as far as it would go, I awkwardly swiped at the windshield, barely clearing a small patch. The strain in my back was immediate, but I couldn’t stop now. I had to see what was in front of me.

Alright, just a few more swipes. Almost there.

O-o-o-p-s! I was relieved—I could finally see!

And then I saw it.

The car in front of me was way too close. I yanked my arm back inside and hit the brake just in time.

The snow kept falling faster than I could clear it. I repeated the awkward stretch-swipe-and-drive maneuver, my arm going numb from the cold. By the time I pulled up to my son’s school, I was shivering, my hair soaked, and my endurance worn thin.

As soon as he got in the car, he stared at me in confusion. “Mom, why are the windows down? It’s freezing! And your hair is all wet!”

I let out a defeated sigh. “I’d love to roll them up… but only if you show me where the wiper button is.”

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