Winter in Vermont. Those three words may evoke similar images in the minds of readers across cultures. Snowmen with carrot noses; peaceful sleigh rides through a tunnel of majestic trees bowing under a heavy white blanket; sitting by the fire after shoveling, snuggled in a cozy duvet. The poetry of a country winter scene is appeasing. Life on a dirt road, in the recesses of said country scene, adds mundane challenges to those same three words. And thus the experience I am about to share. Four words will set the stage: my car was filthy.

On a warm day, recently, as is my custom every time a warmish day presents itself throughout the winter months, I stopped by the car wash on my way home from work. I should know by now that other Vermont car owners share the same idea on such a day. Keeping the car clean is common insurance against premature wear, mainly from road salt.

The local car wash has three self-serve bays. There were two cars in line by the first two bays. There was a car in the third, with no one waiting. It appeared that the man washing it had started a while before I arrived. Lucky! I thought. I was next, ahead of my car wash neighbors.

The man in question went around his car not once, but four times with the hose set on “high pressure soap,” spraying every inch of his vehicle so meticulously as to wash right down to the metal. He then proceeded to rinse four times over, as unhurriedly as he had washed.

Meanwhile, the two bays to my left emptied, the next driver pulled forward, and the next, and the next. Thoughts invaded my mind one after the other, as if also taking their turn entering a portal. One thought, and the next, and the next.

Why don’t I back out and squeeze in behind another bay? What an inconsiderate idiot? Your admittedly far more luxurious car than mine will be dirty again in twenty minutes. This is Vermont, you &%#@!

Indeed, why didn’t I move to another bay? Because I was mysteriously, and thankfully, struck by a moment of self-awareness. My next thought demanded a pause, and patience. I began to play a “what if” game in my mind. A far better option than sitting there, stewing, and cursing a complete stranger.

What if this man is not being inconsiderate at all? What’s his story? If I didn’t know he just spent more than thirty minutes washing his car while someone waited in line, and bumped into him in, say, the grocery store, and we chatted, I might find him to be charming.

Maybe. Maybe. Maybe.

Maybe he’s picking up his sweetheart for dinner and he wants her to feel special riding in an impeccable car with a gentleman. Maybe his son needs and can’t afford a new car and this man is on his way to surprise him with this one, his own. Maybe he just learned of the passing of his best friend and went out for a drive, and slowly washing his car is allowing him to begin to grieve. Maybe this is a rental, and he always returns impeccable rentals. Maybe he’s had a fight with his daughter, whom he loves dearly, and was about to pick up a drink after five years of sobriety. He stopped here instead, seeking peace and preventing a devastating fall off the wagon. Maybe he has to make an important life decision and is absorbed in difficult thoughts. Maybe he’s so sad that he forgot the world around him. Maybe he’s so happy that time is standing still.

Time did stand still for me. It did not matter anymore. It did not matter if I sat there for thirty or forty-five minutes. Maybe drivers and passengers in nearby cars thought I was the idiot for sitting there and waiting. It did not occur to them that maybe, just maybe, I had just received the gift of a pause, and a light heart.

Thank you sir. And forgive me.