The call came around five-thirty. The man on the other phone was talking so fast, his phone was breaking up his speech. I had to ask him to repeat it.

It's the chief of police.

In Coal Town, thirty-some miles away.

Ooookay. Their town is out of my area of responsibility, but if they've got some sort of wildlife problem, I'll see what I can do. I listen quietly.

Mind you, he and I have never met. Or talked.

He starts out telling me his daughter works with my wife.

Okay. That means she's the young gal I met on Thursday, when I stopped by their office. Wife and I had just been discussing her the weekend before, because she makes the long interstate commute to work every day.

But bails off the interstate when she reaches our little town, drives through town, and then takes the old highway the remaining six miles.

All to save her the fear of driving eight miles of interstate with some of the heaviest truck traffic in the country (said so in the paper last month).

His daughter?

Well, she's stuck in a snow drift.

Really? The old highway is that bad? I just drove it this morning, and it was fine. I start worrying about the wife, who isn't home yet.

Nope. Not the highway.

His daughter's stuck in a snow drift in our town. As she described it to her dad, she's by the circle, by the railroad car.

Okay. That's a caboose, not a railroad car, but I know exactly where she is. In the city park. Stopped there myself last Thursday to give the heelers a run.

She's just four blocks away.

He doesn't know me. I just met his daughter. But this worried father's asking, "Can you please go help her get out?"

Well, sure. Of course. It's been months since I laid in cold, wet snow, trying to shovel packed snow out from underneath a vehicle. In the dark. In the wind.

Should be fun.

And, actually, it was. Especially when the wife showed up twenty minutes later to help.

Got the minivan (a Honda, if anyone cares) dug out, but it still wouldn't back out of the drift. Too much ice under the tires. And absolutely nothing to tie onto, front or back, to tow.

Wife said, "We need some sand, or dirt."

And the light went off in my skull.

We're in the park!

The sandlot volleyball court is right. There.

Three scoops of sand later, an hour after her dad's call, and she's out. And on her way home (down an interstate that is technically closed, but her dad got permission from the Patrol for her to travel home on it).

Wasn't until eight-twenty until she got home.

We know because she called, of course. Just so we wouldn't worry. Because yes, the highway was bad.

Winter is like that in our state.

Ain't it grand?