North of Boston
THEY aint much happened sence the last riting. Few days ago we had a real storm. It was a genuine J. G. Whittier "Snow Bound" deal with all accessories.
Next forenoon they tell me that our town's surviving tractor plow is out of gas on the top of a dead-end mountain road. A Model A Ford coupe, lugging go juice, relief driver and helper, has been gone two and one half hours. No calls have come down the party line reporting progress, like was promised.
Get chains on all four wheels of the jeep and load two characters with strong backs and minds, more gas, shovels and depart.
The main road is plowed good, a solid white groove through the drifts. The turn off is just a notch in the six foot high bank. Drop back to low range, four wheel drive and come over on the wheel.
The big tractor has left a V cut through the snow, all dug up where the Model A chewed along after it. Drop back into low and give the jeep her head just like an old hoss. She keeps on climbing very moderate through the dazzling white and green. Overhead there is the clean washed winter sky. The mountains are the conventional grey-blue and white. Now and then some character sticks his head out of a snow-locked house and waves encouraging.
We bust up a hill you would'nt believe and come onto the A model and tractor shifting gas. The trip that took them near three hours we done in half that time.
They start the tractor. While she warms we stand in a little circle, dragging at our cigarettes and wisecracking under that bright blue sky while the wind whips snow clouds across the clearing. We are a very exclusive little club alone on the mountain. There was just one extra place in the jeep that mornin. I do wish one of you fellers could of been in it. You might of liked it.
