December 4, 2013
Shoveling is an art form. I stab at the dense
fluff, attempting to get the ergonomic shovel to cooperate. The eighty
something year old neighbor shows me up with his perfectly edged sidewalk and
driveway while my space looks as though DeJohn pushed the snow removal
equipment. The shame of it all.
I find myself peering at the computer screen at
1:00pm and realize it is barely light inside. The clouds overpower the sunlight
and I exit the cave to walk the dog after maneuvering around the chunks of snow
in the drive. There is a snow blower parked in the garage yet I fail to start
the machine, flooding it immediately. Machinery and I do not get along well. I
feel better when the guy upstairs arrives home from a short day at work, and
cannot crank it either. We shovel the remaining piles in the driveway together,
though I managed most of it on my own before he arrived. He owes me, big time.
Hopefully there will be more snow so he can take
his turn with the bright orange socially responsible shovel. My left hip is
hurting, shoulders pinched and cramped but I cross the day off the calendar
with vigor. First big snowfall and I didn’t whimper once. Eggnog and shot of
whiskey before a bath is my home remedy for winter ailments.
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