Snow. We may not get hit with as much as we used to, but when the skies open up, they do so with purpose. I love snow.
I love shovelling snow. But even I stared out the window on the weekend and blinked. Twice.
Because I shovel the snow from the same street I once played in, I can do a fair comparison of current storms versus those of olden times. Somewhere I have photos to prove my sepia-toned memory isn’t making it up. Right now, the street looks like it did when I was a kid, and that doesn’t happen nearly as often.
Christopher and Ari were raised with the same instruction I was: when it snows, you dig out the fire hydrant at the corner and old people’s driveways first. I thought anyone over 35 was old. You do so automatically, without expecting compensation because we are a community that cares for each other.
Now my sons have long moved out, and I am one of the old people. I still shovel, but I do appreciate the younger backs that show up, as well as the snowblowers. There is no better neighbour than a bored retired guy with a snowblower.
Snowblowers weren’t really a thing back in the 1970s. We’d all head out with shovels, everybody working side by side, driveway by driveway. The best time was after dark when the wind had died down, the scrape of several shovels working in unison and our laughter the only sounds breaking the blanketed silence.
Snow was made for kids. Mom would get us assembled, layer after layer, praying nobody had to pee. One year — I have no.
