To the Edge of the Driveway

A Lesson in Snow

I knew what I was doing when I left New York for a colder climate. Most people are headed the other way — NY to FL not NY to freezing — but I enjoy the cold weather, and no one has ever accused me of being predictable.

Before

My perfect day has my family inside, safe. The snow keeps falling and there’s no way out. The gas fireplace whooshes on and the dogs are snuggled in. For a long time, that was because I was living with three very able bodied men. All I had to do was make sure not to burn the hot cocoa.

Neither my husband nor I were born into shoveling. He grew up in naturally warm coastal climates. Once he made it to California he only worried about earthquakes and traffic. Both of which he managed to survive. 

I grew up in an apartment building in Brooklyn. Snow, in the city is the ultimate show stopper. All that perpetual motion makes way for a different kind of spectacle. A gift. No price for admission. At least that’s what it felt like to me growing up. But I didn’t have to shovel.

I ached for seasons in the four year long springtime I lived in Los Angeles. It was partly to have the earth return to its familiar rhythms again that I convinced my husband to follow me east. 

While he is a brilliant engineer, he’s rarely dug his way to the blacktop. The embarrassment of living a Desperate House wife's life off an ice scattered driveway in my gated community would have been fine. It was the actual danger of making it to the front door that got me. And while a 12 inch electric snowblower helped, it seemed a clear driveway was not a thing my husband wished to pursue. Nor apparently, did I.

When we moved north from Long Island and onto our Western Massachusetts block two and a half years ago, a neighbor suggested that we might need more capacity. My husband found the one with the most advanced blade action, talked about it nonstop, did his research, changed his mind, renewed his subscription to Consumer Reports and bought the model just below the one he really wanted. Which I’m sure is how he chose me, the Prius of life partners, if you will--reliable, cheap, goes the distance, fun to drive but not too many bells and whistles. Navigation not included.

He tried to tell me how to use his machine before he left for the city. I heard the words coming out of his mouth as indecipherable as a NYC transit announcement, but I figured I’d YouTube if I had to.

A few days later, he was in the city and I was at home. The pretty snow began to fall. I’d be the one stepping out into the snow globe someone else was shaking. It wasn’t forecasted to be like the foot the week before, only a coating, which it turns out is a very subjective measure. One person’s coating is another one’s blizzard. A lesson I’ve learned the hard way.

I took a walk and ran into a neighbor who’d already shoveled clear to the pavement, and was making her way to the bank of mailboxes to clear them off. The snow was coming down in edible sized flakes and we stopped to chat for a minute. She inspired me in case I had to do something when I got home.

I tried not to panic. And for the first four inches I was pretty successful. I wasn’t going to shovel below 3 inches. My lesbian friends and women I’ve met here have been a source of inspiration to me. They don’t, “you do the shoveling; I’ll do laundry. You mow the lawn; I’ll arrange the flowers. I’ll think oil change, you think chicken soup.” If you’re up, you’re up. 

Or maybe it’s the exurban necessity of needing to literally take care of things. Whatever it is, I’ve been taking my hand at the chores I left for my guys for far too long. 

It’s a meditation, I told myself as I suited up. Shovel so he doesn’t have to block my exit when he pulls in later. That’s all I had to do. And clear the walkway for Amazon deliveries — I mean, my friends.

I have learned inside New England that the layering of clothing to keep warm is not just something they made up to explain why a person would live in a climate where the snot freezes in your nose. With cozy ears and warm toes though, anything is possible.

I made my lines and devised a plan to push what was thankfully, mercifully, light and fluffy snow. The shovel scrape was soothing. I thought about the snowblower but dug in instead. The next ice age would be over and out before I figured out how to start the motor. 

Return to the breath, I told myself, even when that breath is a jagged line of snow. 

Full disclosure also, I knew my neighbors would rescue me if I needed help. In fact one young man literally came over to see if I’d let him. I said yes, instinctively. My fingers were already burning with cold. But I quickly changed my mind. I wanted to do this myself. I didn’t want the snowblower or help. Just me and a shovel looking for blacktop. 

It took 45 minutes before I finished because I’d pulled the trigger too soon and it was still coming down hard enough to accumulate so I had to go back to the beginning before surrendering. And, when my husband showed up late that night, he blocked my car in the garage, anyway. Yet the meditation was complete and I was able to move his car before I left the next day, feeling good about what I’d accomplished. 

After and a bit of blacktop

I am seeking opportunities to challenge my place in this world, just so I don’t go insane. I don’t want to be rescued anymore, but helped. It’s not going be perfect, but I will laugh over it. And I’m open to any strategies if you’ve got them.

Having said that, I also know that there is a warmth waiting in the end. Whether it’s spring or the vacation I’m recording this from on the Caribbean Sea. I’ll be back to shoveling next week, but I’m soaking up the sun in the meantime. Stay warm. Stay safe.