Many years ago, back in Nova Scotia, I commuted twenty miles to work. Along the way, there was a place in the road that flooded after heavy rains, especially when there were snow banks along the shoulder.
One late winter afternoon, I was driving home. The sun was out, but during the afternoon there were heavy showers. I approached a spot that always flooded. In the distance, I saw the water. The section of road was flooded by eight inches of water.
An approaching car hit the puddle. Water flew outward in waves, as it plowed through. In the distance, I saw another car approaching. Judging by our speed, I deduced we’d hit the puddle at the same time; I turned my wipers on.
We hit the puddle at the same time. We showered each other with dueling walls of brown, muddy, and icy water. My wipers, flapping as fast as a hummingbird’s wings, swept the water away.
I was pleased with my foresight. As I drove on, water dripped from my glasses and face and onto my lap. “Why didn’t I close my window?” I cursed.
There are times when it seems like no matter how hard I try, something goes wrong.
I keep just my wipers going.
