When I started thinking of possible topics for this column, I decided immediately that enough has already been said about the weather. I believe I even stated adamantly to myself and the dog, something like, "I will not write about the weather." I am tired of the subject -- tired of hearing about it, tired of talking about it and tired of working around it. I am tired of having driving conditions and daily routine interruptions determined by it. I am tired of surmising how missed school days will be made up.

It has been a winter from "you know where" (that would be from "up north," says my friend from Wisconsin) and it has overstayed its welcome. Enough is enough. I am not giving the weather my column space, too.

Focusing on what not to write about had the same effect as that little trick of instructing someone to "think of any animal except an elephant." It has been difficult to come up with a topic far removed.

Then, thanks to the mile of ice-covered road I travel to get from my house to Highway 59, my thought turned to something related but more appealing: memories of my dad and the way in which he handled the challenges of winter driving on our dirt road when I was a growing up.

If you've never spent a winter in the more-rugged, mountainous areas of our state, you may scratch your head in wonderment when some districts cancel school for days after the rest of us have gone back. It is hard to imagine how road conditions a couple of hours east could be so different than those we are contending with here in our neck of the woods.

But, thanks to my years as a youngster traveling endless miles of rural Madison County roads, I "get it." Driving conditions on those rugged country roads that go over the rivers, through the woods and up and down steep hillsides can't be anticipated based on what roads look like for the rest of the world. They just can't.

Moving on now to the above-mentioned memories, I don't know for sure that my dad enjoyed driving on slick, icy roads, but I suspect he was at least eager for the satisfaction of knowing he wasn't snowed in. We lived six or seven miles from the highway, and winter storms provided plenty of opportunities for sliding in a ditch, getting stuck in deep ruts or, in really scary instances, sliding backwards down or off a steep hillside.

Dad was prepared. He had two tires in the trunk that already had snow chains attached, and he could put them on as soon as he saw the necessity. For some reason, a fresh snowfall always put him in the mood to go to town. He'd prepare the car while Mom made a grocery list. He'd make a few calls to nearby neighbors to see who else needed him to pick up something and then head out to make his successful run. He'd return with groceries, a firsthand report of road conditions, talk of whom he had seen and stories of any stuck motorists who had needed his assistance along the way.

Dad always made it back home, no matter how bad the road conditions were; and I grew to believe that his driving was just another of his almost super human abilities. I also learned to appreciate his knack for helping others when the going got rough. I hope he knew how much I appreciated the times he helped me.

Funny, how driving down my snow-packed dirt road can stir up such memories that melt a heart.

Annette Rowe is a freelance writer from rural Gentry and a speech-language pathologist at Siloam Springs High School. She may be reached by email at [email protected]. Opinions expressed are those of the author.