Tuesday, December 23, 2008:  Emulating Sisyphus

 

We have shoveled our driveway four times.  The first time, with over six inches already covering the ground and more to come, we knew we had to clear it or the snow would get too high for us to manage.  The second time, with just a few inches covering and more yet to fall, my husband impulsively started shoveling in the dark one night, convinced it would help prevent ice formation.  The third time, I cleared another few inches while my husband was on a two-hour emergency mission (on foot) for coffee beans.  The fourth time we worked together, moving snow and trying (unsuccessfully) to crack the ice underneath.  We were sure we were done and we congratulated ourselves on our fine job.  

 

Then last night, we watched in disbelief as snow fell and covered our driveway once more.  We have yet to shovel again, but we know we will.      

 

Thursday, December 24, 2008: The Bloom is Off The Rose

 

We have been snowbound for a week, the beauty fading and the inconvenience escalating.  The fantastic mounds of snow covering the landscape have turned to the inevitable mixture of dirt and slush.  Our eyes have become accustomed to the white, and the real world knocks at our door, enticing us even as the conditions preclude our escape. Although main roads have reportedly cleared enough for travel, the side streets remain filled with rocky ice.  A few cars with chains and four-wheel drive have made it through, driving ruts into the snow and ice.  We examine the ruts hopefully, thinking perhaps they provide enough of a track for us to follow, but they are too narrow, and our driveway too icy, to allow the careful maneuvering required.  

 

Friday, December 26, 2008: The Best Machine

 

This evening we hear a roaring engine and the persistent beep of alert signals.  We race to the window and see lights reflecting.  It’s a snowplough!  We stand by the window and watch the machine make its way down the street, pushing walls of snow and ice to the curb.  I see a neighbor across the street, standing opposite me while looking out his window at this welcome sight.  The plough leaves the street but then comes back.  It is going to go into the cul de sac at the end of our street!

 

We switch windows, curious as to how this awkward machine will handle a circular street.  We now see across to different neighbors, and a woman and teenager peer out their front door, soon joined by an elderly man.  We all stand there looking out, tracking the vehicle that represents our rescue.  I feel like we are in the old West, and the train has finally made it through the mountains to bring supplies to the stranded, weary population.  

 

We watch, transfixed.  We admire the driver’s technique:  “He really knows what he’s doing,” comments my husband, as the operator systematically goes back and forth with gentle curves, clearing a main area before slicing off to create wedges that he can then gobble up.    

 

January 1, 2009: Epilogue

 

We start off 2009 with gray skies and temperatures above freezing.  The only remnants of the snowstorm are a few lingering piles of dirty snow.  I note the clear pavement with gratitude, rain notwithstanding, and happily go about the business of ordinary life.  I don’t want it to snow today or tomorrow or next week, but I know my rational thinking will not last.  I love snow, and I can’t help but love it. Childhood snow memories are embedded in the cells of my body, and my adult mind is powerless against their call. Against my better judgment I will welcome the next snow, and I will enjoy it until the fantasy world fades and the real world beckons.