We've all heard about the Eskimo snow vocabulary list. Here in New England, we actually put this list to work. At least at 88 Maple Street, we put the list to work...Dad's snow obsession continues unabated. But, this morning, my inner alarm clock went off before either he or the city snowplows were in operation. I just rolled out of bed in my long undies and wool socks, pulled on beanie and boots and down jacket and hit the driveway.
The storm hit sometime before dawn. A quiet, hard-balled, light, tight snow. No softly moving flakes, but a serious, office-worker type that you might expect in the mountains of Eurasia. This snow was moving and productive--it meant business. Already almost four inches deep (small potatoes by Massachusetts standards), I was going to meet it, head on, before it "accumulated under my Subaru".
I chose the small, snowplow shaped orange shovel from the back porch and cleared the stairs. Then the dog's path and the bird feeder paths. (God forbid we couldn't get to either station...) Next, out to the driveway. Dad was fast asleep in his recliner, the morning news blaring as he nodded off. Mom was still upstairs, "tidying up" in her morning ablutions. But I was the weekend warrior--minus technology--except for a plastic shovel with a plain wood handle and my own grit.
My fingers were already beginning the telltale burning sensation through the polymer fibers of the cheap gloves I'd grabbed. Bad move. I should know better. Still, only my second winter back, my brain still lags behind the idea of winter utility vs. winter fashion. I pulled my Dr. Seuss striped beanie over my ears and put my head down, into the gritty snow. I would make this a fast trip and try not to focus on my tingling fingers.
The snow, like this, is easy to shovel. Hard, shaped like sand on the beach, light, it doesn't clump and it doesn't retain the heavy wetness of earlier storms. I begin pushing it, rather than shoveling it over my shoulders. A much easier proposition, though, the distance is the same. My brother, the Engineer, has commented that I should just have Dad show me how to work the blower--it isn't rocket science. He is correct. It isn't. It is Old Yankee Science--which translates into: "Don't touch my tools!" Further, even if I did, there are so many exposed wires, jerry-rigged switches, a broken piece of wood that Dad carries with him whenever he starts or stops the machine, for which I'm not sure its use, only that Dad is constantly "thunking" something on the blower that is below his kneecaps, and gas leaks out in various spots while this operation is going on--I have no desire to touch it, let alone pry it from his gnarled grip. I go back to the orange plastic shovel.
Defining the edges, then sweeping back and forth, all the way down to the street (which hasn't seen a snowplow all morning...)takes about twenty-minutes. I am aware, not only is Maeve, the dog, keeping a watch on me in the window, one window over, she is joined, now, by a wide-awake Dad. He keeps making all kinds of incomprehensible hand signals to me, which I choose to ignore. I pretend the wind carries away his words, from behind storm windows. I pretend my glasses are so fogged I cannot see him--or Maeve. I pretend I am a Zen monk, sweeping a sand garden, trying to find enlightenment and contentment in the swirls and order I am bringing to the ground below me. I am pretending my fingers are not burning at their tips and in dire need of warm water to save them from going Mt. Everest black.
Finally, Dad bangs in the window closest to me with something that nearly cracks it. I look up and he is grinning, waving me in. My Subaru is still in the driveway, blocking his exit, but it is free of snow and ice. I gasp my way inside, frozen from stem to stern. There is one cup of coffee left. The dog acts as if I have just come back from the Pole. Dad starts going on and on that I've used "a butterfly pattern"--very effective. Course it isn't what HE would do, but, hey, everyone has their own style when shoveling a driveway...
Nice job, he actually volunteers. Now he doesn't have to take out the blower...just yet.
When Mom comes downstairs and sees me scrambling an egg, she says, " Hungry, K.K.?" in a very sarcastic voice...I tell her I've just shoveled the driveway and yes, now that I've got the feeling back in my fingers, I thought I'd have a hot breakfast.
"Shoveling's good for you...you don't get enough excercise..." she says, exiting to the laundry room.
I flip a piece of scrambled egg to the dog and take a sip of coffee.
Outside, the gritty little grains keep piling.
The storm hit sometime before dawn. A quiet, hard-balled, light, tight snow. No softly moving flakes, but a serious, office-worker type that you might expect in the mountains of Eurasia. This snow was moving and productive--it meant business. Already almost four inches deep (small potatoes by Massachusetts standards), I was going to meet it, head on, before it "accumulated under my Subaru".
I chose the small, snowplow shaped orange shovel from the back porch and cleared the stairs. Then the dog's path and the bird feeder paths. (God forbid we couldn't get to either station...) Next, out to the driveway. Dad was fast asleep in his recliner, the morning news blaring as he nodded off. Mom was still upstairs, "tidying up" in her morning ablutions. But I was the weekend warrior--minus technology--except for a plastic shovel with a plain wood handle and my own grit.
My fingers were already beginning the telltale burning sensation through the polymer fibers of the cheap gloves I'd grabbed. Bad move. I should know better. Still, only my second winter back, my brain still lags behind the idea of winter utility vs. winter fashion. I pulled my Dr. Seuss striped beanie over my ears and put my head down, into the gritty snow. I would make this a fast trip and try not to focus on my tingling fingers.
The snow, like this, is easy to shovel. Hard, shaped like sand on the beach, light, it doesn't clump and it doesn't retain the heavy wetness of earlier storms. I begin pushing it, rather than shoveling it over my shoulders. A much easier proposition, though, the distance is the same. My brother, the Engineer, has commented that I should just have Dad show me how to work the blower--it isn't rocket science. He is correct. It isn't. It is Old Yankee Science--which translates into: "Don't touch my tools!" Further, even if I did, there are so many exposed wires, jerry-rigged switches, a broken piece of wood that Dad carries with him whenever he starts or stops the machine, for which I'm not sure its use, only that Dad is constantly "thunking" something on the blower that is below his kneecaps, and gas leaks out in various spots while this operation is going on--I have no desire to touch it, let alone pry it from his gnarled grip. I go back to the orange plastic shovel.
Defining the edges, then sweeping back and forth, all the way down to the street (which hasn't seen a snowplow all morning...)takes about twenty-minutes. I am aware, not only is Maeve, the dog, keeping a watch on me in the window, one window over, she is joined, now, by a wide-awake Dad. He keeps making all kinds of incomprehensible hand signals to me, which I choose to ignore. I pretend the wind carries away his words, from behind storm windows. I pretend my glasses are so fogged I cannot see him--or Maeve. I pretend I am a Zen monk, sweeping a sand garden, trying to find enlightenment and contentment in the swirls and order I am bringing to the ground below me. I am pretending my fingers are not burning at their tips and in dire need of warm water to save them from going Mt. Everest black.
Finally, Dad bangs in the window closest to me with something that nearly cracks it. I look up and he is grinning, waving me in. My Subaru is still in the driveway, blocking his exit, but it is free of snow and ice. I gasp my way inside, frozen from stem to stern. There is one cup of coffee left. The dog acts as if I have just come back from the Pole. Dad starts going on and on that I've used "a butterfly pattern"--very effective. Course it isn't what HE would do, but, hey, everyone has their own style when shoveling a driveway...
Nice job, he actually volunteers. Now he doesn't have to take out the blower...just yet.
When Mom comes downstairs and sees me scrambling an egg, she says, " Hungry, K.K.?" in a very sarcastic voice...I tell her I've just shoveled the driveway and yes, now that I've got the feeling back in my fingers, I thought I'd have a hot breakfast.
"Shoveling's good for you...you don't get enough excercise..." she says, exiting to the laundry room.
I flip a piece of scrambled egg to the dog and take a sip of coffee.
Outside, the gritty little grains keep piling.
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