George Rebane

The French have a saying, ‘Look (search) for the woman’ when one talks of a man having achieved substance, means, or notoriety.  There can usually be found a female who was material to the advancement, success, or survival of a celebrated man.  Well, I’m not claiming to be any of them, but I suspect that the saying still applies to the plebes who’ve at least made it part of the way.  This evening in the middle of a driving snowstorm we had to take the trash barrel down to the road.

Our house is about a hundred feet above that road up a sloping driveway that is almost 1,000 feet long.  We usually take the trash cans down in Jo Ann’s front wheel drive van.  I cast my hubris ladened and expert eye on the situation outside, and pronounced that we could do it in the van.  Jo Ann prudently advised that we take my Grand Cherokee instead – this beast has been known to climb over anything that doesn’t float all of its wheels.  In my wisdom (qualified below) I pronounced, with all the male certitude I could muster, ‘Nah, your van can make it.  Let’s do it.’  She persisted, ‘I don’t know, I’d take the Jeep.’ – I prevailed.

Soon we were in the van with the trash can heading down the driveway under about six inches of snow, and a small voice inside my head said, ‘Oh goddam!’ – I kept a stiff upper lip and kept going down hill since there was no turning back.  Jo Ann kept a prudent but noticably smug silence.

We got to the place by the row of mailboxes where the trash cans always line up dutifully on Wednesday night, and placed ours out there as the first and only one.  The snow was coming down hard and the road was really covered with snow.  The two cars that went by were driving very slowly.

I was able to back up the van and turn it around, but as I started into the uphill grade of the driveway, I stalled with both wheels spinning.  No problem, they’ll soon eat their way onto solid stuff and we’ll be back up the hill following our old tracks just made – no problemo.  Mucho problemo.  After a few more tries, it was clear that any continued attempts would quickly eat up the tenuous credibility I have attempted to lay in place over the decades of our marriage.

I decided that a timely capitulation was all I could muster in the quickly dimming light.  I heard myself say, ‘I’m a dumb ass’, and it sounded about on the mark.  I managed to pull the van into a safe parking spot and we got out with the walking sticks we have in the car for such adventures.  Then I noticed that I’m wearing my open Birkenstocks while another brushed off piece of wisdom echoes in what I pridefully have called my mind – ‘Don’t you want to put on some solid shoes?’  At this point double dumb ass would have been more on the mark, but the male ego can only take so much self-flaggelation.

We had a brisk walk through the snow that had almost covered the van’s tracks.  My feet were cold and wet by the time we got back into the house.  The folks who make those world famous Birkenstocks apparently believe that their customers know when to wear them and when not.  It turned out that that assessment at times may be overly optimistic.  (The attentive Reader may detect the returning footprints by the car tracks in the photo.)

I hereby submit that ‘cherche la femme’ also applies to every man who has made an utter fool of himself, and was advised otherwise by an attending and more prescient female.  Humbly, I offer this insight to the world as Rebane’s Corollary.