Pauline Nevins

Do I risk life and limb and careen left or make a right?

I faced this same decision shortly after moving to Auburn. Preparing to pull out of a side road into the speeding traffic of Highway 49 between Auburn and Grass Valley, I knew left was the quicker way home, but did I want to chance it?

I turned right. In the past, I’d counted 13 traffic lights on 49 between Elm Ave. to Dry Creek Road. So, I reasoned, there certainly should be a light or two between Dry Creek and Combie, where I could make a safe U-turn. Off I drove … and drove … and drove. No traffic lights.

The white signboard announcing in bold black letters “Daylight Headlight Section Enforced by CHP” gave me the jitters. What did that mean? Was there a tunnel ahead? I motored on.

The next placard warned: Turn on headlights next 16 miles, safety corridor. My teeth chattered. Reluctantly, I kept my foot on the accelerator. Squinting up ahead, I glimpsed the word, “Nevada.” NEVADA? I’d crossed the state line! I’ve seen enough movies to know nothing good happens when you make a run for the border. I was headed for Boise! A few miles on, an amber light flashed – a traffic light. I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding, turned right and gratefully headed back toward California.

This time, I was relaxed, knowing now the Nevada sign referred to the county, not the Silver State, and I was in no danger of leaving California. I drove the expected miles to Combie Road, made a right and motored along the scenic two-lane twisting road, eventually turning on Magnolia to Dogbar. Unfortunately, my serenity was short-lived. Crossing the one-lane bridge, I almost rear-ended a pickup truck parked in the middle of the road. A beard poked out of the driver-side window, followed by an arm signaling me to back up. Confused, I stayed put.

A clean-shaved young man then materialized by my driver’s-side window, his dark face wreathed in a pleasant smile. I rolled down my window.

“Who are you with?” I asked, as if we were at a company convention.

“The tow truck company, Ma’am.”

I softened. The American term, “Ma’am,” sounds so much more pleasant than the Brits’ “Madam,” which has a haughty ring.

“A truck jackknifed, and it’s up the hill blocking traffic,” he explained. “You’ll have to back up and pull over so the traffic stuck up there can come through. The folks are getting annoyed.”

“Back up?” I squeaked. Family and friends scatter like quail when they hear my car’s backup beeper.

“Like me to do it?” he said kindly.

Would I? I tried to leap out of the driver’s seat with my seatbelt still buckled.

He reversed deftly down the hill and pulled over.

We sat quietly and waited as a long line of scowling drivers zoomed by, shooting us ticked off looks as if we were personally responsible for the traffic jam.

It was at this point I felt the effects of violating a rule created during a trip to Rome with two friends. We were never sure, no matter the venue, whether there would be a usable toilet available. So, before we left our rented apartment, we would remind each other to “go before we go,” regardless of whether we had advance signaling. This rule has taken on more urgency as I’ve grown older.

Foolishly, I’d left my Newcomers and Neighbors hand and foot card game in a rush earlier. Now I sat demurely, my crossed right leg shutting off the circulation to my left. Finally, we were free to go back up the hill. I thanked the young man profusely and sped off.

I screeched to a halt in my driveway. The front door was locked! I rang the bell and peered in the window in time to see my husband, Jim, heave himself out of the recliner, arms stuck out in front, looking for all the world like Greg Louganis on the high dive.

I heard him shuffle to the door. He opened it a crack. Who did he think was driving my car? I pushed open the door, almost knocking the poor bloke over, and bunny-hopped down the hallway to the bathroom.

Later that evening, comfortably settled on the sofa, I looked across at Jim in his recliner. Clasped in his left hand was the Auburn Journal, folded in fourths to the crossword page. His glasses sat on the end of his nose, his pen poised midair. He was frowning.

“Can I help?” I asked.

“Name a raceway,” he replied.

“How many letters?”

“One, two …….. 13.”

“Highwayfortynine,” I said, and chuckled at my cleverness.

He paused.

“That’s 16,” he said.