The Attack of the Snowplow Men

Dear Frank,

I shoveled a narrow, one person path to the end of my driveway, surveying the task that awaited me. The closer to the main highway I got, the more I understood the daunting, Herculean work load that presented itself to me. The snowplows came through, throwing up a two foot wall of compressed and compacted snow. Using my shovel, I nibbled around its edges hoping that perhaps this was some kind of an illusion, perhaps a nightmare that would disappear if I could only wake up. Not so, and my elbow was aching from the last round of the white sands of imagination.

Fingers aching, I went back into the basement to toast them over my wood burner. I finally took your advice and pulled out the snow blower that had been collecting dust in my cellar. I am mechanically dyslexic and try not to use machines with more than one moving part other than my automobile, but between the size of the task ahead and the ache in my elbow, I decided to use it.

After filling the tank with fresh gasoline, priming, and choking, I dragged it outside. Pulling the starting cord, priming, and pulling the cord again multiple times, amid a cloud of dark exhaust fumes, it coughed to life and I began to sweep across my driveway, belching huge plumes of the white winter snow that had been deposited by the wind and the snowplow operators. Back and forth through the eighteen inch snow drifts and the plows’ attempt to block me in and lay siege to my home.

A smile crept across my face as I neared the finish line. With no teens nearby and the pains of age, I chose the option that you prodded me to use years ago. Thanks Frank.