Snow Job

Years ago, I had to go to a job interview in Burlington, N.C. I would soon be a new college graduate, an electrical engineer, and this was my first job interview.

Virginia Tech is located in the mountains of southwestern Virginia. I had to drive to Burlington, and to do that I had to drive over a mountain range.

All this time later, I can't remember the roads I took. If I speculate, I would guess that I took U.S. 460 east to Roanoke and then U.S. 220 south to Martinsville, and then Va. 87 into Burlington. I remember a few things about that trip.

I was driving my 1960 Plymouth. The weather was snowing. I was in a line of cars going up a mountain pass. At the head of the line was a big black truck. It wasn't a semi-truck, it was something like a big dump truck, as I recall. The road was slippery. Once in a while a car would slide off the road. The road was banked toward the mountain, so thankfully when a car slid off the road, it ended up against the side of a hill. The line of cars slowly grew shorter as, one by one, cars slid away.

Sometimes the wind blew hard and there was a sudden whiteout. When that happened, I could see nothing outside of my car. I couldn't see the vehicles in front of me. I couldn't see the hood of my Plymouth. Looking into my rear view mirror, all I could see was gray light coming through the snow covering my rear window. Visibility was zero. I could only apply brakes and stop, and hope the cars behind me did the same thing. Then the wind would calm somewhat, the wipers cleared snow from my windshield, and there was the hood of my car again, and there was the car ahead of me. Everyone was stopped. 

But not for long. The big truck began moving up the mountain again with the ever-shortening line of cars trailing behind it like ducklings behind their mother. The Plymouth had good traction. I had gotten the car out of places where I thought for sure I would need a tow. The truck continued up the mountain, and the number of cars between the truck and my Plymouth dwindled. The number of cars behind me dwindled, too.

Not every car slid off the road. Many drivers gave up and turned back. Eventually (and incredibly), the only vehicles left climbing that mountain pass were the big truck and my Plymouth. I had pressing business in Burlington. The job interview was important and I had to get there. 

I finally came down the other side of the mountain and onto flat land. I sped along the snow-covered road alone. No other cars were on the road. I couldn't really see the road; all the land was white. But I could discern where, approximately, the road was located beneath the snow. I could tell from the fence that ran alongside the road. I could tell from the bridges crossing over the road. I would aim for the empty space between bridge supports and I could be pretty sure I was on the road.

I made it to Burlington and checked into a cheap motel. The man at the front desk informed me that a night there would cost me eight dollars. I didn't have eight dollars on me, because I was a poor college student and I couldn't lay my hands on more than five dollars. (I had already bounced a check for that amount.) I offered him a check, but he declined. I told him I would pay him when I checked out the next day.

I slept the night in the motel room and the next morning I went to my job interview. That afternoon, as I left the building with one of the employees, I asked if I could get eight dollars from him. He said I could. So I wrote him a check and took the eight dollars and went to the motel and paid my bill, and I drove back to Blacksburg, to Virginia Tech. I got the job. I would be working for a missile guidance system engineering department. I think the pay was $750 per month. When your money is so tight that you bounce $5 checks, $750 sounds like a lot. I was thankful for it. And I was thankful for that 1960 Plymouth that pulled me over that mountain pass, through wind and snow and whiteouts, when the chips were down.