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I hear from a colleague that the conference did come off, but you can’t blame it on me. When I departed New York for the conference the weather was clear and fine and I was excited. Big hills, blue sky, and the sun setting over the ocean were in my future. Though I would drive 7 hours to Erie, PA and fly to San Francisco in the morning I was carefree: work was over, the Easter weekend was imminent, and life was good. My optimism remained untouched by the snow and rain that worsened as traffic crept towards Pennsylvania’s Pocono mountains; and after driving several hours along I-80 my principle concern was simply to find a place to stop. I was to get my wish. Around 6 pm our painful stop-and-go slowed to a stop. Like well-trained dogs that both sit and stay, we were immovable. An hour passed, two, then three: I ate raisins, read a book, cleaned out my car in the center of a ring of diesels, back-lit by towering klieg lights. Outside the circle was snow and ice and black night. By midnight a tiny amount of shuffling forward and sliding managed to open a gap next to me through which I could squeeze, perpendicular to my by now good friends. Having done so, I turned my car onto the breakdown lane and limped off in a snit. I passed alongside an endless queue of trucks and cars, learning that I-80 was “closed”, that I should abandon all hope. But I was defiant. My options being what they were (slim), I took a side-road, driving in righteous wrath the road and into a ditch, where I stuck, blinkers blinking, like a candle in a birthday cake. [Fade to black] On the road again around 1:00 am, I crept ever so cleverly and stubbornly along an unfamiliar road in the wake of a number of colossal plows. Turns out they were going my way, since I was eventually brought past the mountains and back to I-80. Even out of the mountains the scene was apocalyptic. Everywhere cars lay strewn: belly up on the meridian, on the shoulder, snow-covered and abandoned, or fallen to a terrifying doom in the depths beyond the guardrails. Like Cerebus guarding Hell’s gate, a police car blocked the entrance to the interstate. Perhaps it too was stranded. In any event, I slipped by it undeterred. Conceding that I had missed my flight – it was 3:30 am, the airport was still 6 hours away, and I was exhausted – I found a motel. There I slept, rose, and rushed to the highway by 7:00 am, driving to the Erie airport in hopes of a later flight only to discover that no seats were to be had on any plane going anywhere. Ah, Easter: symbol of the Resurrection, of the spirit traveling from death to life, no doubt by plane. I wasn’t the only casualty of the BRS session. One speaker dropped out early; fortunately, Bob Riemenschneider was able to step in to replace him. Jane Duran, another speaker, became ill and missed the session altogether. A similar fate must have hit the audience, who, according to Sandra Lapointe, the third speaker, was also missing from the session.—Rosalind Carey
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