OF ROAD SALT, ANTI-FREEZE & DUST BUNNIES

         They are standing on the eastern horizon, like cutouts in a shadow box, silhouetted against the pre-dawn light. I can see them through the tree line as I unsnap the dog from her chain. They don't move. I count six of them. I want to applaud the marvelous stage effects, but as I walk back to the front door where the dog waits for me, I must keep my eye on the ground to avoid the slippery spots. When I reach the stoop and look again, the deer are gone.

         "Glug, gulp, glug, gulp." I hear a drinking sound to the other side of me. It is my station wagon, guzzling anti-freeze. I filled the reserve container on Monday before I took off for the south. I checked it again later this morning and it was empty again. The car has reached the point where I tell the station attendant to 'fill 'er up and check the gas.' My mechanic found many gaskets needing tightening and several leaks. That was last month. As he gave me back the keys, he advised I keep checking the levels of fluid.

         He has joined that list of mechanics that have opened the hood of various cars I have owned, looked at the engine and told me, 'that baby will run forever; you can't destroy that motor'. It always makes me feel good to hear this, but they never mention transmissions or cooling systems or the other minor things like the seals around doors and windows that keep out the atmosphere.

         This latest runforever passed the 100,000-mile mark last month. As I headed out into the snow Monday at midday, I hoped it had another four hundred miles in it before it needed another swig of coolant. I did not relish overheating on one of the hills of the Taconic Parkway, which I call the Saltway when it snows. By the time I've reached Poughkeepsie, the washer fluid is working overtime and the residue from the road has covered the driver's side windows, making any passing sheer guesswork.

         My mind drifts to the idea of finding a new car. I like to hug Mother Earth; I do not want to sit up high in a SUV, and while a pickup truck would be practical, I don't think I am ready for one yet. The idea of approaching a car salesman without Morgan is terrifying. I have no sales resistance. Surely he will empty my wallet of every cent I carry and I will end up with something I hate. Just as my knuckles turn white, I arrive at my client's house.

         This trip is not that necessary. I saw them three weeks ago, but my client/friend of the past thirteen years has been diagnosed with an inoperable brain tumor and I cannot stay away. Neither their beautiful house, nor his wonderful voice that sings lieder in fetching fashion, has protected him from this uninvited guest in his cranium. The last time there, we hugged each other as I left. This time he excuses himself to take a nap; his wife asks advice about which documents can be safely thrown out. I hem; I haw and after she is satisfied, take my leave.

         Filthy car and all, I cross that wonder of wonders, the Tappan Zee Bridge and head for northern New Jersey where friend Pamela lives. Her directions are excellent and even with only tunnel vision, I find the house easily. She lives on the second floor under a sloping roof that adds coziness to the two large rooms. She puts the water on for the ziti.

         I look around at her collections. I can now picture where she sits as we talk on the phone, or when we chat on line and I understand a little more why her friendship is endearing to me. She points out her children, her late husband and her grandchildren, all of whose photos grace a wall near the side of her bed. Something on the other side of the room attracts us; I back up to get a better view and I fall over her Nordic Track. Take the clod out of the country, but you can't take away the clod.

         She apologizes for the machine, and for the dust she keeps finding, and for her 'watery' sauce for the ziti. "Cook sauce with chicken and it gets watery." To my tastebuds the sauce is nectar, but then I am prejudiced in her favor. She insists dishes must be done as soon as dinner is over, apologizing the entire time. I sit at the counter that doubles for a table and watch. She won't let me help, so I can only reflect on the dust bunnies and cobwebs that fill my house. She pretends not to see them when she visits. She is kind that way.

         As we sit on the couch, and then the floor, and move to her computer in the bedroom to read her latest writings, I begin more and more to understand this very private person who has become my friend and who has admitted me into her life. I feel very privileged to be here. We take a break and devour some devil's food cake, laughing all the while, and then retire again to parts of our friendship that are solely ours to know.

         I am still recuperating from my operation. When I grow tired, the multitude of quilts on her bed covers me. Her family looks down on this interloper and seems to accept that he is here. She asks if I would like some water and shortly brings back a bottle from the kitchen. I am supine but grab the bottle, not noticing that she has removed the cap. I nearly pour it all over me, but recoil from such stupidity. We both laugh uncontrollably. Pamela turns out the light, retreats to her computer on the other side of the room and answers emails. I hear the sound of typing and doze off.

         "Did I sleep? Of course," I respond. She is getting up and dressing for work in the same pre-dawn darkness that I do every day. We manage the bathroom pas de deux successfully. She starts her work day at 6:30, so by 6:10 we have hugged each other one last time, gotten into our cars and are off. I don't even check the level of coolant. I drive fearlessly home, only stopping once at a rest stop to fill the gas tank and clean the salt off the side windows and mirror.

         It is 8:30 when I pull into my driveway. The dog and cat are looking out the window. They do not recognize the car; it is now ash gray in color, but they recognize their intrepid traveler back from his rounds, feeling renewed and invigorated, ready to face the world. The light coating of snow that fell yesterday while I was away show deer track on our side of the tree line. Had I been here, I could have seen them, but this is one trade I am glad I did not make.