Snow

“It’s comin’ down hard out there.”

What kind of idiot does she take me for? I can see that clearly enough, thank you. “Weather says a foot or two. Guys at work say a few inches.”

“You think they know what their talkin’ about?”

“Well, they do have degrees in weather.”

“Not them, the guys at work.”

Yeah, I know what she meant, but I also know that she wants something. She only spends her precious time talking to me when she wants something. The longer the conversation, the more she wants.

“Its Saturday.”

Like I didn’t know that. See? She doesn’t even think I know the day of the week.

“Its Saturday.”

“I heard.”

“The front walk has at least half a foot of snow.”

Oh. That’s what she wants. Now we go off on how lucky I am that I don’t have to work on Saturdays and that I should go break my back into pieces the size of dimes just so that the walk can get snowed in again in less than an hour.

“Its Saturday. The mailman’s comin’ today. Not everybody gets Saturdays off, you know.”

Okay, nothing about the back, not yet anyway, but I honestly don’t know why anyone would ever put in a walk more than five or ten feet long in a climate where a light snowstorm brings a full six inches at least and the leading cause of death is irritation by spouse, followed closely by decapitation by massive snowflake on Saturday morning.

“The snow’s still falling. It’s only gonna get harder to clear.”

“We could wait till Spring.” Parting shot. There’s that look. You know the one. The I’m-sending-you-a-death-ray look. Absolutely no sense of humor. Nothing. Not even a sick sadistic one. Most people have at least that. Not her. Where am I going? To the garage. To get a shovel. Remembering how wonderful the nice long front walk seemed in the summer when we moved in all those long years ago.

How many shovels do we need? When did we get so many? And where’s the big flat one? All right, fine. I’ll use the little flat one. Better than them bent diggin’ things. It’ll take longer, but hey. Who’s countin’?

On go the fifteen layers of clothing, at least two pairs of gloves, a pair of mittens, and a rag to tie on my face. This one’s dirty. Smells like gasoline. Tastes like gasoline, too. Whatever. Take off the mittens, then the gloves, put on my boots, make sure they’re the ones with the dried mud on them, put the gloves back on, put the mittens on over the gloves. Walk through the house and leave as much mud behind as possible on the floor.

Whose idea was this? Certainly not mine! Why is it so long? Why is it so wide? Is there a purpose to this? Lets just get this over with. Then, I can go back inside and have another cup of coffee. Maybe two. We’ll see.

Let’s clear from the street to the house. Go in as soon as I get to the door. I can break up the snow walking to the street, too. That’ll make it easier.

Made it to the street, zero casualties so far. Back is fine, arms are fine, neck is fine, leg seems a bit finicky but should be all right. Is this shovel broken? No, not really, but the handle’s gettin’ a bit loose. Should last for a while. Been out here at least a few minutes and haven’t even shifted a single shovel of snow yet. Wow, that’s hard to say. Single shovel of snow. There we go. that’s better. One shovel of snow. Two shovels of snow. Three shovels of snow.

That old neighbor’s gonna want help with her walk. Always does. Better get inside before I get enlisted for that one too. Better hurry up then. Only a dozen or so shovels in. She’ll be out any minute now, too. I can barely see five feet in this storm. How long have I been out here? No watch. No watch means no time. What if we just destroyed all the clocks in the world. Calendars too. Mass burnings in the parks and town centers. The mailman can come whenever he feels like. I can go to work whenever life gets irritating. At least there’s one escape from this place.

Halfway. They call this global warming? When are the palm trees comin’. Not fast enough for me. Keep on truckin’! Keep on burnin’ oil! I can almost see the campaign posters: ‘Are you doing your part? Condemn green technology.’ That’d be great. Get this one though. Global warming is going to make us all freeze to death. Great logic. Just great. Who came up with that? Wasn’t it the Europeans? Guys at work said so. Probably the French.

Almost there. And here comes the mailman. I’ll probably be done by the time he gets over here though. But then I’ll have to go back to the beginning and start over. It’s probably already filled in an inch or two at least.

Done. Now I get to go back to the beginning and do it all again. Neighbor still hasn’t showed up yet. Maybe she’s snowed in. Either way, I don’t want to be the one to find out. And here comes the mailman, with that stupid smile like he actually enjoys this.

“Good morning, sir. Awful weather. Do you know when it’s stopping?”

“Good morning to you too. Have no idea when it’s stopping. Heard a foot or
two.” Sir? Do I look that old? He can’t be more than ten or fifteen years younger than me. Is it the jacket? Does it make me look old? It’s only a year old.

“Have a good day, sir.”

“You too.” Sir again! He really knows how to set people off, now doesn’t he. Whatever. I’m done. Wonder what he brought. Probably just some trashy catalogues and bills. Never anything good. ‘Cept for them tax returns.

Good God, its hot in here. Did she turn the heat up? I told her not to turn the heat up. It overworks the furnace, and it costs an arm and a leg. No. She didn’t. Right where I left it. I’m probably just cold from outside. Coffee’s probably cold.

It is. I’ll have to heat it up.

The snow stopped. Took it long enough. What time is it? It’s getting dark. Must be close to five or five thirty, this time of year. Almost through. Just have to get through dinner and I’m golden.

I must have slept well. Didn’t hear the wind at all. She did, though. She hears everything.

“The wind was awful last night. The snow blew back in. I checked out the window on my way downstairs.”

“Sunday. No mail today.” Thank God for that, too.

“You forgettin’ something?”

“No.” Are you? “Sunday. We go to church on Sunday.”

Not happening. Clearing the snow, that is. Church too, if I had my way. Some guy sits there for an hour and a half while we sing, then he gets up, waddles over to the podium that is so special it gets its own name, and drones on for another hour about how God doesn’t want me to watch football later. You know, this God guy really sounds pretty nasty. Either that, or the priest doesn’t have a clue what he’s talkin’ about. And he gets paid for it too!

“I am not wearing boots to church, and I am not having my shoes filled with snow.”

Well then I suggest you get workin’ and clear it yourself. I could start my own church and get paid more than I do now, for doing a heckuva lot less work! Why not? We have that old shed out back. Put in a couple benches, a pulpit, make a cross out of plywood, draw a smiley face in blood on it, buy a bible, dozen copies of an old country songbook, the old stuff is close enough to gospel anyway, you’re good to go. Put some boards on top for the steeple or something.

“Did you hear me? I swear, I get better responses out of the wall behind your head sometimes.”

“All right, all right, just stop it. I’ll clear it.” Make sure not to look at her on the way out. That wasn’t loud enough. Go back and slam the door again. That’s a little better.