An Open Letter to Mr. Plow

I wonder if they take sadistic pleasure in it as they roar down your street at a thousand miles an hour at three in the morning, orange strobe blinking to the beat, while the big plow launches all the snow from the street into a densely packed wall at the carefully cleared apron of each house's driveway.

The sound of the plow. Worse than the report of any alarm. To be awakened from sound sleep while warm in bed to the realization that someone is being paid overtime to undo the work you had to do for free. Your muscles still sting from that labor of clearing out the driveway of two feet of snow.

The damage didn't look so bad from inside. It was upon closer inspection that things became much more dreary indeed. From inside the depth and density of the snow wall at the end of my drive could only be measured against the already giant polygonal mounds of snow that served as reminders of the previous day's melee. It was all too easy to give into the optimism.

But things look different when you are standing next to them and can regard them up close. It was indeed much, much worse than it had looked the first time I saw it from the house, in my robe, drinking coffee.

My back began to ache anew. I hadn't even begun.

It was colder, all of a sudden, than it had been all winter. The wind blew stiffly. The sky was clear and while the sun shone, it radiated no heat. It served only to add harsh light to the situation at hand. This was going to suck.

I got to work. First chop the packed snow into manageable slices, then clear. Chop. Clear. Chop. Clear. Rest. Chop. Clear. Repeat. Nearly finished, the neighbor asked if I would like to use the snow thrower. I resisted the temptation to cry. The tears would have only frozen to my face along side the snot that was already frozen to my face. My asthma kicked in and I began to cough.

Time to warm up the cars. I sat in mine while it ran, and let the seat heater work on my back. My breath and the steam coming off me froze onto every surface in the car from the windows to the poorly wrought plastic wood trim. I just sat and watched my toil condense and coat the interior of my car creating a ghostly film.

I didn't realize until I moved the cars how much snow still remained on the paddock. My back again protested as I moved the powder that remained. I had now officially done more shoveling the day after the impressive blizzard of eleven than on the day itself. It hardly seemed fair. In fact, it was patently not fair.

But there are meetings to go to, committees to chair, work to do, lives to live. The slot now cleared at the end of my drive, barely wide enough for a car, is my portal to the world outside. I can't help but wish I still had the wall of snow there to act as a gate, an impediment, an excuse to stay in one more day. Put on another pot of coffee, mix in a little Irish and stare at the stark beauty of the bright sun reflecting off the freshly fallen powder. This type of beauty is best regarded from afar through the veil of comfort provided by knowing you can live among it, without having to live with it.