Your worst winter story: The Snow Fairy
Got a story you'd like to submit? You can send us your tale of winter wackness to email@example.com. Stories that run will be in consideration for a prize at the end of the series.
50 reasons why we love winter in Minnesota
I used to live with my boyfriend in Uptown. He didn't have a car, and worked at Rainbow Foods in St. Louis Park. Every morning, I would give him a ride to work at 3:30 a.m. and then go back to bed for a few hours.
One early Tuesday, I was driving home in a massive blizzard. It was the beginning of another Minnesota "snowpocalypse." The plows on Lyndale had made huge mounds of snow blocking off all the side streets. When I took a turn towards my apartment, I lodged my car right into a gigantic pile of snow. There were no cars or people in sight. I was wearing my pajamas, and had forgotten my cell phone at home. My tires kept spinning and spinning, but the car wouldn't budge.
Suddenly, I heard heavy breathing in the distance. A man I lovingly refer to as the "Snow Fairy" then appeared. He was a large, dark figure riding a hot pink Huffy mountain bike down the middle of the road. I called out to him for help, but I was alone and felt scared.
He walked right up to the car and stood five inches from my face. I could smell his breath permeating with alcohol. His tan snowsuit was covered in filth, and his stubbled face sagged as if he hadn't slept in days. "Get out of the car," the Snow Fairy grumbled. He said I had to let him drive.
I looked around a deserted Uptown. I briefly thought about how my car was going to smell afterwards.
Then, in a moment of courage, I surrendered the only substantial thing I've every owned over to a complete stranger, in the dark.
After a few swift maneuvers, the snow fairy rocked my car out of the deep pit of snow, and it was free. I stood in awe, my plaid pajamas caked with snow. He stared back at me. We were silent.
Then, as quickly as he had arrived, he leaped from my car back onto his Huffy bicycle, and rode off into the hazy white distance. "Thank you! You are my angel!" I yelled after him, but he was already a grey silhouette disappearing into the shimmery snowfall.
He wasn't Jake Gyllenhaal in The Day After Tomorrow, but he just right for me.