January 25: TRANSMISSION. Many Thanks to Dar for today’s prompt, as we take a moment or two each day this month to reflect on words that come from the community. And thanks to Linda G Hill for getting us organized!

She was new to this kind of weather.

After shoveling a thin strip from the apartment’s front entrance to her car, and digging an oasis around her door on the passenger side, she felt sure she’d solved the problem.

She was new to the northern climate, sure that her southern-bred skills fully prepared her for the winter days. She’d seen footage on the television, heard all the jokes, seen all the memes, but the job offer was too sweet to pass up. The on-street parking didn’t seem like a serious problem when she’d moved here in late Spring. She was hearty. She was adventurous.

She had her own car and it was old enough to not be fully computerized. Yes, it had crappy mileage, but this was a temporary inconvenience. The age of the car meant the car door could also be opened with a key; she’d shoveled a wider path so the door could swing open, once unlocked, and she could crawl in and start her car. Temps hadn’t gotten THAT cold that the battery would be dead, and her dad had gifted her with snow tires, and a knowing nod, lips firmly clamped shut.

She was naïve.

The door had opened with a resounding crack, once she’d melted the ice over the keyhole with her bare palm. She’d crawled over the extra blanket in the passenger-side seat, managed her Sorels over the center console and wrestled her body, with its puffy knee-length jacket, behind the driver’s wheel. The car stalled. She waited. Tried again, held on a second later until it caught. Sat inside for a few moments to let the engine warm up, then jumped at the putting backfires. The engine stalled again. She swore. Waited and tried again, and this time the engine held. Rolled down her window to brush off the most of the snow, rolled it back up and put the car in drive.

Maybe she wasn’t so naïve.

Pressing down on the accelerator, the engine roared, but the wheels didn’t budge. Checked that the parking brake was off. Done. Pressed the accelerator again, more gently because of the weight and bulk of her Sorels , and tried rocking the car. Still no budging. Was that smoke she smelled? Was there a whine coming from under the hood. Her car had been driving ok for an older model; was it the fucking transmission?

She wished she’d brought her cell phone down with her.

And then she remembered. They’d had rain and then sleet before the blizzard, and the temperatures had been just cold enough that the de-icing agents the State Transportation folks usually laid down would not activate. Her car wheels had frozen to the road. She was buried over her hubcaps. She wasn’t going anywhere for awhile.

“At least the car starts. Better dig that shovel out of the back seat, brush off some of this snow.” Turning and reaching around, she noticed a rumble coming down the street. The car’s body boomed from back to front. It rocked and the streetside windows darkened. “Oh shit,” she continued.

The snowplow had come through.  

© Liz Husebye Hartmann (2026) 

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