I called in the `Redneck Cavalry' to negotiate the `Prius graveyard' and rescue my daughter

This is Portland in a snowstorm. Not pretty.

This was an eventful week in the Sabo house. A lot happened, including Gabe suffering a spiral fracture of his left leg when he tried snowboarding down a snow ramp off our back deck following the dumping of a foot of snow here in Gloucester.

Evie had an exhausting trip out to Oregon by air that began at 10:30 a.m. on Tuesday when she left for Richmond. She flew out of Richmond, made it to Newark, N.J., had a brutally long layover and then departed for Portland. Only to have her flight rerouted to Seattle due to heavy snow that socked in PDX. She eventually made it to Portland in the middle of the night but was stranded at the airport.

It's a helpless feeling knowing my daughter is stranded 3,000 miles away after a long night. The roads were nasty, we checked the MAX light rail and it looked like it was running to Clackamas Town Center and we were hoping maybe she could catch a bus to Canby, where Julie's folks live. But the buses weren't running -- everything in Portland was basically shut down amid a snowstorm dropping a foot of white stuff -- and the Tri-Met webpage recommended that after Evie got to Clackamas Town Center she walk the 7.8 remaining miles to Canby. In a blizzard. With her luggage.

Um, no.

I was desperate. I called my good friend in Corvallis, Matt Fields. Back in 2008, in similar conditions in December, Matt had taken me from Corvallis to the airport in Portland with no problem so I could fly back to Gloucester. I wanted to get the lowdown from Matt on how bad it really was in Oregon for this go around. It wasn't good.

Matt described Interstate 5 around Portland quite ominously as a "Prius graveyard." Gulp.

Then he offered to go fetch Evie.

"I've got the Excursion, it's got studs on the tires, I'll throw some chains in the back and head up there," he said. Like it's that easy. Well, it was. For him. Truth be told, it was time to send in the `Redneck Cavalry.'

That would be Matt. He's an Oregonian through and through. Hickory shirts, chainsaws, operates heavy equipment, woodsman, marksman (just ask the deer in western Oregon), farmer, mechanic, you name it. He put the rugged in rugged individual.

He's a solid Christian brother, as solid as they come, a family man and a follower of Christ. He's willing to help out a friend in need and go rescue his daughter in an Oregon blizzard that shut down 2/3 of the state.

Within hours I had a text from Evie saying she was passing through Woodburn on her way to Corvallis. They were southbound on I-5, well clear of the Prius graveyard by then.

I am so thankful for friends like Matt Fields. A true redneck brother. They don't make them any better.

In A Big Family, Communication Is Very Important

Letting people know they are too close to the edge would be a good form of communication.

In a large family, having open lines of communication are very important. For example, say you were on a road trip across the country and made a quick pit stop off of I-80 in Nebraska. It would be very important to have open lines of communication between the passengers and the driver when one of the passengers noticed a brother or sister running out of the restroom and sprinting to catch up as the van headed back out to the endless cornfields freeway. In this case, it would be very important to say something. You know, like let the driver know there's a child left behind. Or maybe something like this: "DAD! STOP THE VAN! WE FORGOT _________ (enter the name of any of 10 children you might have accidentally left behind)!

On any given day in the Sabo house, there might be three dentist appointments, two separate soccer practices, picking someone up from school and dropping that someone off at work, then later picking that person up from work, a shopping trip in order to feed a small army our family, a night Bible study and an emergency late-night run to the store for ice cream. To achieve maximum efficiency in the Sabo house on days like this it requires the ultimate in communication. Husbands, read closely here because what I'm about to say may revolutionize your marriage: The key to communicating with my wife is that I need to "talk" to her. Yes, actual conversation that goes beyond grunts and "yes" or "no" or other primitive forms of male communication. I have discovered that it's often good to "talk" to my wife in the morning to achieve the previously mentioned maximum efficiency. Alas, sometimes I fall short. I still believe Julie has the ability to read my mind and it's not uncommon to get a phone call from her asking what I'm doing. That's usually a good sign that I should be doing something else, which typically involves a matter of importance in the Sabo household. And apparently I believe Julie is not the only person who should be able to read my mind.

On Sunday afternoon I left for Charlotte, N.C., to spend a week long retreat with my co-workers in the Transformational Education Network. I was dropping off Ethan in Richmond on the way so he could pick up his car and head back to Hampden-Sydney College in Farmville, Va. Monday morning got off to a great start with my colleagues until I got a text from one of my kids. Here is the text I got from my 17-year-old daughter Evie: "So mom just told me you went to North Carolina for a week ... I just thought you had decided to stay a night at Farmville when you dropped off Ethan. I asked mom when you'd be back today and she said, 'Oh...about a week.' "

Although I love to communicate with my children by texting, sometimes even when they are in the next room, that was not a text I enjoyed receiving. In fact, I was horrified. I should have my `Dad' card pulled. How did one of my kids not know I was going to be gone for a whole week? I extended my profuse apologies to Evie and am still kicking myself. When I get home I'm going to ground myself. After I make it up to her somehow. Like sharing my calendar with her on Google+ maybe? Would that qualify as good communication?

A Gloucester Game-Changer: `Pocahontas Lived Here'

Gloucester: The view ain't so bad. Neither is the history.

When I tell most people I am from the lovely, photographically enchanting enclave of Gloucester, Va., they give me a blank look that says, "Where's that?" Or a blank look that says, "I thought Gloucester was in Massachusetts." Often I've aided the geographically-challenged by saying the Virginia strain of Gloucester is across the river from Yorktown and Williamsburg, or an hour east of Richmond on Chesapeake Bay, or 2 1/2 hours south of Washington D.C. and a light bulb goes off above their head. But I've been scrapping all that lately and just saying, "Pocahontas lived here." Eyes light up at the mention of Pocahontas.

Just this morning it happened. I am in Charlotte, N.C., for the week for a retreat/conference with my co-workers in TEN3, Transformational Education Network (www.ten3.org). We are here at the headquarters of Serving In Mission (most notably in the public eye recently because two of SIM's doctors contracted Ebola recently while serving in West Africa) from literally around the world. From California to Zambia, 10 of us TEN3 missionaries are here  from around the globe to talk strategy, plan, pray, encourage and exhort each other on our mission to provide transformational Christian education materials and technology skills to disciple and equip young people in Africa and the Caribbean.

This morning I met another missionary who is here for a separate conference. This missionary serves in Ethiopia but is from Australia. When she asked where I was from I told her Gloucester, Va., and explained roughly where it was. Then I mentioned it's where Pocahontas lived. That was the game changer. She had seen the movie. You know, the Disney animated film "Pocahontas." Even though the scenery in the Disney flick is utterly and completely lacking anything remotely close to what you'd find in Gloucester -- for example, the next waterfall someone stumbles upon in Gloucester will be the first -- and I have yet to meet a animals or trees that can talk, it's one of those things that's made Pocahontas famous.

Beyond the Disney flick, I asked the missionary what she knew about Pocahontas. She was an Indian princess, she said. That appears to be part of the fascination with Pocahontas; other fascinating things include that she was an Indian princess, saved John Smith's life, conversed with animals and traveled to England, among other things. In May, when I was still working as a reporter for the Daily Press, I attended an event in Gloucester in which the Virginia governor, Terry McAuliffe, paid a visit to the historic site of Pocahontas' village, called Werowocomoco, on the banks of the York River. He hopes the site will become a national park, something that would truly put Gloucester on the map. Historians and government officials say that around the world, Pocahontas is more well-known than George Washington and other iconic American figures. They say that if Werowocomoco received a designation as a national park, visitors from around the world fascinated by the story of Pocahontas would pay a visit.  I bet I won't be explaining so much where to find Gloucester if that's the case.

Here's a link to the story I wrote for the Daily Press about Pocahontas' old stomping grounds becoming a national park: Werowocomoco story

Oh, and one other thing. We look forward to you paying a visit to see us in historic Gloucester.