Many people look forward to winter. I am not one of them. The last time I recall not having a visceral reaction to even hearing the word snow was in the late 80s. And then it was only because a snowstorm carried the hope of school closing.
To be clear, I love seeing snow fall, watching it adorn the trees and blanket the grass. If there was a guarantee it would never stick to the roads or driveways, snow and I would be friends. But sadly, the white terror often shows no mercy, indiscriminately smothering pavement and walkway.
Perhaps I wouldn’t feel this way if I could enjoy the view from inside my home. But eventually I must go out, bundled up as if I’m about to trek through the Alaskan tundra. First the thermals, then the snowpants and sweatshirt, then the jacket, hat, gloves, and scarf. Hardly able to put my arms down, I reach for my trusty partner: my shovel. As I open the door, depending on wind gusts and snow drifts, I’m either greeted by a clean porch or a mountain of white. In the latter case, I recruit the storm door to clear a small path out of the house. I pray the door won’t get stuck, leaving me wedged in between the two worlds.
Shoveling commences.
I tell myself it’s excellent cardio. I’ll feel great once it’s done. This pep talk effect fades quickly, especially when snowfall totals are above six inches. I can manage up to six inches. After that, I need reinforcements. This means relying on the kindness of my neighbors and their snowblowers.
I once had a snowblower. Maybe if mine had been a high-end blower, I might have used it more. But ours was small and clogged. Lots of stops and starts. If the snow was above a certain level (that six-inch mark), you needed to pick it up and place it on top of whatever mound you were trying to plow. Sure, that helps build your muscles, but not the most efficient means of ridding the white stuff.
The sole time I employed it, I felt we found our rhythm–woman and machine as one, and then it happened. The snowblower revolted and left me behind. I fell backward onto my driveway with a thud. Thankfully, I was spared a concussion. I laid there for a few moments, contemplating abandoning the whole project to make snow angels. After all, I was already in perfect position.
Eventually, clearer heads prevailed, and I resumed my task. Just one woman and her shovel. The snowblower was banished. We never spoke of it again.
After several hours, outfit changes, and numerous infusions of caffeine, I was done. I stood at the foot of the driveway in triumph.
A short time later, the neighborhood plows came through and blocked me back in again. I cursed the day they were born, geared up, and headed out for the next round. Just one woman and her shovel.
INSTANT NOODLES 