Gift of the God’s By J. L. Snyder Dusk brought snow intensely swirling down all over the "Windy City". The warnings were out. The interstate was already closed. Hibernation seemed the only proper response. “The Fox” and I had traveled in my 58 Ford Skyliner retractable hardtop to her empty home, down town for a shack up. All was right with Eden but like the eventual curse of death with each gift of birth, the evening was compromised. I had a previous commitment demanding that I be back at the dorm where I worked, 80 miles away by breakfast. I said a sorrowful good bye to “the Fox” about 2 AM under a crystal clear sky. The full moon revealed a consistent blanket of a little over a foot of powdered snow frosting the north eastern end of Illinois. I stuck with the heavily traveled roads until I exited Chicago proper. Travel was slow but steady. My “main thoroughfare” passed by a thruway on ramp. The thruway was dark. The street lights chilled and dormant. The ramp just laid there like a goose down comforter with out a wrinkle “Oh well, what the Hell!?” We (me and the 58) headed up the “on” ramp with snow tires churning powder right in the full face of a bright tightly ringed winter moon, sandwiched between the sparkle of an unconcerned galaxy and a glittering Earth bound carpet of intricately crafted crystals. Not a track disgraced this space. A blank canvas, usually the promenade of thousands of commuters an hour lay purified before us. Having made the incision, it was now time to open her up. Both lanes, both directions all mine. Thoughts of a possible arrest sat snow blind in a corner of my mind. All we had to do was stay some where on the road surface and not stray off on to a shoulder. Seemed easy transport,as I fed an increasing dose of ethyl to the cars manifold. I reviewed the goals of the evening: To arrive at the dorm unticketed and unstuck. The interceptor engine started rapping to the duel glass packs, Rotary Connections Minnie Ripperton bathing me in “Ruby Tuesday” on the radio, as the margin markers blurred in my peripheral vision. With the speedo vacillating between 55 and 65, remaining oriented and aligned, seemed well within our grasp. The solid little crystals of ice shot from my front wheel wells in great plumed arches. We were crossing the landscape at three times the speed of the access roads. Traveling so fast my mind started drifting back to the warm embrace of “the Fox”. I began to lament leaving as early as I did. This heavily steel reinforced snow boat was superior in crossing these great lakes of white. Feeling solidly grounded to the fact this was a gift from the gods, I reached over and shut off the headlights depending on full moon glow instead. No car lights any where, but the road margin markers were also nearly invisible. The bubble in my brain level was beginning to drift. Here it was. Pure freedom to crow about but now was not the time or velocity to get too loose. My sealed beams returned to confirm a mild course correction was required. My right hand tugged the helm and we returned to the center of the glide path. The off ramp arrived long before it was desired and the Sunday morning front desk assignment returned my boyish glee to the end of the nineteen sixties.