Recently reading a piece in the New Yorker by staff writer John Seabrook about his “black ice” near-death experience, my own very similar, and also almost fatal experience, was resurrected with a jolt and begged to be memorialized in writing. 

I have often reminded my son Conrad that fate (or God, if you wish) is watching over him and is saving him for some very special achievement, for already in his young life he has survived three potentially fatal experiences, where only a slight change in circumstances would have resulted in his death. Looking back at my own much longer life, I fortunately can recall but one such experience for me – and that is the one which I am about to describe.

“Black ice” is the common term for the thin layer of ice that forms on pavement when it is raining and the road surface and ambient temperature are at or below freezing. Of course the ice that forms under these conditions is not black but is so named because it doesn’t appear as the more visible packed-snow type of ice that also presents a challenge for winter driving. This you can see and can deal with; however, black ice is usually a surprise, covering a roadway invisibly, while the black surface of the road is still clearly visible – hence its name. Also, when driving in snow, or in snow packed so thoroughly on a road surface that it becomes ice, your vehicle’s tires can still retain a bit of traction – control of your vehicle is a challenge but enough is retained for at least some traction and steering. On black ice, however, there is absolutely no control – traction required for acceleration, steering or braking is lost completely.

I must have been about 35 or so, then living by myself in the house at 7 Brook Street in Plympton, Massachusetts, which my brothers Richard and Glenn had built for me. On one late winter evening I had spent a pleasant hour or two with a female friend living in neighboring Kingston, intending to drive home afterward, get to bed and rest up for the next day’s work at my job as elementary principal in Duxbury. I had shared a delicious dinner with her but had drunk no alcohol of any kind, so I was pleasantly sober and alert.

I was then still driving my Volkswagen camper, described in my previous article about the cars I have owned. Now, any VW bus of that vintage, including the much more spare and simple Kombi and the heavier camper with its convenient Westphalia trappings, is a notoriously poor handling vehicle – very unwieldy and top-heavy, woefully underpowered, and, with so much more weight in the back where the engine and drive train were located and so little up front, rendered dependable steering under any slippery conditions, somewhat challenging. 

In addition, the VW bus positions the driver and front seat passenger right up front, over and a little in front of the front axel, without any of the crash protection of the protruding front engine and axel of a standard vehicle. Even the steering wheel on this vehicle was a bit awkward to handle because it was almost horizontal. Of course, in spite of the vulnerability, this seating afforded great visibility for the driver and front passenger, if it mattered at any time.

Well back to my story. Snow had been forecast, but when I left my friend’s home I noted that is was cold and raining lightly but not yet snowing. I recall that I could hear the sound of my tires on the wet pavement during the initial segment of my trip home. Having experienced the challenges,  threats and risks of winter driving in New England for some years, I was comforted by this sound – it was wet pavement, not ice, upon which I was driving. As I left the village of Kingston behind me when I turned up Route 80 toward Plympton, I could still claim to be driving on wet pavement because I heard that reassuring sound. But as I proceeded up the several miles of the darkened and isolated stretch of the road leading toward my home, one of the last things I remembered was that the sound of my tires on wet pavement had changed – I could no longer hear it. That’s when it happened. I guess I was driving at or below the speed limit, maybe 40 – 45 miles per hour, when I realized that my VW camper was slowly rotating, spinning down the road at the same speed I had been driving, totally out of control. I was absolutely helpless – there was no steering, no brakes, no control of any kind. That’s the last thing I remembered until waking up in the Plymouth hospital the next day, with terrible pain in my chest and my aching, pounding head bountifully bandaged.

Later discussing my accident with the policeman who found me, I found that after spinning totally out of control on black ice, I had struck an electrical pole, effectively putting out people’s lights for miles around. The impact was on the right side of the front of the vehicle, the passenger side, which was crushed in clear to the seat. If I had struck the pole just a little more to the left, I would likely have died instantly, crushed by the pole and the steering wheel. As it was, my body had evidently struck the steering wheel, breaking several ribs and my head had struck the windshield, giving me a severe concussion and multiple cuts, the former of which had rendered me senseless until I woke up the next morning. The policeman said that he had found me moving and apparently conscious, lurching around the interior of my bus trying to extricate myself while bleeding profusely from my head wounds. An ambulance he had summoned had taken me to Plymouth hospital, where my cuts were treated and I was put to bed until I recovered consciousness.

I don’t remember returning to work immediately after my accident. Perhaps it had occurred during our winter break and I had sufficient time to recover before returning. I do remember that the head cuts healed quickly and completely but the broken ribs were another matter. For a long time I had great difficulty even breathing without significant pain and a cough or a sneeze made me cry out, so this injury required a much longer time for recovery. My first contact in the hospital was with my friend and her two children, who showered me with attention and concern which I am sure hastened my recovery. 

Well, that was my one and only near fatal experience. My son is two up on me and I hope it will stay that way. I certainly don’t want any more for either of us. But “black ice” is always a concern for me in winter driving. I am in Vermont now as I write this and even though it’s April and springtime should be here, it’s unfortunately still winter, with conditions perfect for “black ice” at night. It’s been snowing and raining with temperatures hovering around 30, sometimes in the high 20’s at night, and a little above freezing during the day. Needless to say, I am staying at home, well provisioned by the groceries I bought last Friday on the last leg of my journey. I refuse to go anywhere until a general rise in temperature arrives this weekend. And perhaps I should  conclude by injecting this otherwise serious piece with a little humor from Comedy Central’s Key and Peele and their discussion of “black ice”, alluded to in the afore-mentioned New Yorker article. 

I have to laugh, really. People dressed in suits and lovely dresses at a wine-tasting event – smelling, observing, pouring, sipping, commenting, exclaiming, celebrating. Or long articles about some remarkable new (or old) wine derived from a particular grape from a special vineyard in a certain country. And both the sippers and the writers employ a lexicon of special adjectives to describe it – like “impudent”, “woody”, “flippant”, “fruity”, “decadent”, “lazy”, “buttery”, “intellectually satisfying”, and so on. 

Or people, maybe younger, maybe not dressed in suits and lovely dresses but in much less formal attire, perhaps in jeans and plaid shirts, extolling the virtues of the latest “craft” beer. Wow, that tastes really “accessible”, “aggressive”,  “caramel”, “hoppy”, “assertive”, “bright”, and so on.

 Or some mustachioed elderly gentlemen in tweeds and vests lounging in leather armchairs and sofas at their exclusive club, being served some expensive single malt scotch or Tennessee sour mash whiskey, either “neat” or “on the rocks”, and murmuring to each other as they sipped that it tasted “smooth”, “malty”, “peaty”, “youthful”, “oaky”, “mellow”, “austere” or “smokey”.

Oh, come on now. You are tasting or drinking this stuff mainly because it has alcohol in it, not because of any special flavor or “feel”. You there, wine sniffers, tasters and sippers, would you be gathering there in your finery, affectatiously tasting all of those different wines if they did not contain alcohol? Maybe you should just consider savoring and comparing the different grape juices before they were fermented. Or perhaps set up a “grape tasting” event comparing the grapes themselves. No, let’s be honest – the big reason that you wish to fancy yourselves wine connoisseurs is simply that the wine contains alcohol and imbibing the alcohol makes you feel good. 

And you guys over there at the brewery sampling all those different craft beers. If suddenly the alcohol were removed from the beer would you be gathering together like this – laughing and carrying on, hoisting those embossed mugs and glasses to toast the brewer that created this marvelous stuff? What if it didn’t contain alcohol but still tasted more or less the same – would you really still be drinking it and enjoying it so much? Hey, then why not an O’Doul’s instead of that Kilt Lifter? Of course, if we’re honest, you are enjoying that rich craft beer or even that bland Bud Lite for one reason – they contain alcohol and the alcohol makes you feel good.  

And you distinguished gents in the tweeds – you’re really enjoying that exclusive scotch or bourbon. You’re drinking it properly too – you’re moving it around in your mouth, letting the vapors penetrate the sinuses; you’re breathing minimally so you can appreciate the flavors and aromatics…..and savoring every sip. But honestly, gentlemen, if that expensive single malt or sour mash had no alcohol, would you be drinking it at all? I think not, because after the flavor and the aroma, both good, of course, you are drinking this stuff because it contains alcohol and the alcohol makes you feel good.

Readers, I’m not impugning our collective enjoyment of the myriad flavors of wine, beer or whiskey (or gin, vodka, rum, tequila, brandy and the rest). Sure lots of it tastes great and if our taste buds and palates are in good shape can truly be savored and enjoyed. But…..and I beg you to consider….if these libations did not contain alcohol, would we be drinking them? I mean would we seek out anything at all that tastes like gin if it did not contain alcohol and could not conveniently become a martini or a gin and tonic?

Humans consuming alcohol has been around since we homo-sapiens began to populate the earth. No one knows when man first squeezed some grapes to render the juice, then accidentally let it sit around for too long, finally drank it and noticed that he felt great, much better than when he drank the juice fresh, and then began to leave it around for longer on purpose, finally perfecting the process of wine-making.

Beer was purportedly discovered (or invented) by the ancient Sumerians and enjoyed in ancient Egypt as well. Now exactly how did this happen, do you suppose? Maybe some guy was cooking up a nice barley soup for supper, threw some handy herbs in for flavoring, but forgot about it, letting it cool down and sit for a few days or weeks. Then when he finally got around to consuming it, wow, it tasted a little different and made him feel good! Voila! – beer was invented (or discovered?).

While the discovery of wine and beer were perhaps fortuitous accidents, the varied family of liquors or spirits historically resulted from a purposeful process because all have one thing in common- the process of distillation. All were developed over the centuries by distilling alcohol from sugars or starches acted upon by yeast, producing the alcohol by the natural process of fermentation. Sugars yielded the rums, grains the whiskeys, other starches the gins and vodkas, berries the brandies and so on. And it’s worth noting that some of these distilled spirits were first used as medicines, particularly gin. And also, the triangle trade developed as the popularity of rum rose – slaves bought in Africa for New England rum, traded in the West Indies for sugar and molasses, and these to New England to make more rum. And the first licensed whiskey distillery in the world, “Old Bushmills Distillery” located in Ireland (how appropriate!) still produces whisky today.

A visit to a huge warehouse type of liquor store like “Total Wine” or “BevMo” is an incredible experience. There they are – hundreds and hundreds of different wines from all over the world, an astonishing number of different beers, also from everywhere, from small craft brewers to huge conglomerates, and a truly impressive array of spirits – dozens of different scotches, whiskies, brandies, gins, rums, tequilas and vodkas. And you know what? Everything in this bewildering array of beverages has one thing in common – alcohol – that substance that makes you feel good. Everyone who walks up and down the isles, dropping bottle after bottle into their shopping cart is buying the same thing, alcohol, only adorned in different trappings.. 

And I’m no different than these people. I enjoy a scotch on the rocks sometime around 5:00 almost every day. The scotch I drink is relatively inexpensive because it’s a blended, certainly not a single malt and is aged for only thirty-six months. But it’s still 80 proof so I drink it because it relaxes me and makes me feel good. Oh yes, I wish I could afford a more exclusive scotch to enjoy each day, but I can’t. So I have my House of Stuart, Scoresby or Clan McGregor, depending on what was on sale. And I pour it over the ice cubes, sip it and it tastes quite good. And because I get that nice relaxed feeling, I really don’t care that it’s not Macallan, Johnny Walker Black, or Glenlivet – although I do sometimes sacrifice and buy some of these to keep on hand for special occasions. But for my much-anticipated daily drink, my inexpensive blendeds do just fine.

 And if for some reason I don’t have my scotch, I may drink some red wine, usually Charles Shaw merlot from Trader Joe’s, famously known also as “Two Buck Chuck” or Kirkland cabernet sauvignon from Costco, both actually quite well regarded. They both taste great, don’t give me a headache, go down well with whatever I’m eating and are reasonably priced. While comparatively inexpensive, they’re certainly not the cheap rotgut that’s shared by the unfortunate alcoholic vagrants gathered under our city bridges or sold by bootleggers on our Native American reservations, like Roma Tokay or some other cheap wine that may give you a buzz but also likely indigestion and a massive headache. But to further make my point, exactly why do they drink this stuff? I don’t think that groups of poor down and out inner city vagrants or poor native Americans on the streets of Farmington, Shiprock or Gallup, New Mexico, gather in groups and discuss the various flavors or bouquets of the liquid in the flat bottles stuffed in their back pockets. No, they could care less about the taste – they’re just trying to get that buzz, the good feeling that comes from the alcohol.

So friends – let’s not kid ourselves. It’s perfectly ok to admit why we enjoy alcohol – it relaxes us and makes us feel good. It’s not necessary to deceptively cloak that enjoyment in cloying rationales like aroma, taste, or feel, or attach any of the hundreds of picturesque adjectives to the beverage we’re enjoying. It’s ok to just say – it tastes fine and makes me feel good.