Finally, Decent Snow

We had about 10 inches of snow over the weekend. My husband works in the ski business, so to us, it looks like little dollar bills, floating down from above.

There was enough for the kids to play in. There was enough for me to shovel. Mentally rubbing my hands together and puffing my chest, I got my snow shovel down from the garage wall.

I"m going to do some serious bragging. If shoveling snow were an Olympic Winter Sport, I would have made the US Team. I would dominate all other contenders. This is because, before we moved to Burb World two years ago, we lived in a cabin up at 9,000 feet. The road to our house was closed in winter and the cabin would get buried in snow. Oh! Maybe I have a picture.

I took this one evening after I was done with the day's shoveling. That's the snow piled up way past the top of the deck rail, reaching to the eaves up above.

Here's our downstairs window, all covered over with snow. The last winter we were there, the whole lower story was buried entirely.

So, I got really good at shoveling mass quantities. I developed "moves". The Overhead Chop (for when the drift is higher than your head); the Underhand Distance Toss; Forehand; Backhand; and I'm really fast. When the only thing between you and a cup of hot coffee enjoyed with your feet toasting in front of the wood stove is a back deck that has to be shoveled...

At any rate, that was then and this is now. So I took down my snow shovel and I thought, "Well, I don't even really NEED to do this driveway. We can still get in if we use four-wheel drive." No, no. All the neighbors are revving up their snow blowers. If I don't go out there and shovel, they'll come over and do it for me, and then I'll have to spend the afternoon baking cookies for them. So I go out and get started. I'm like John Henry, keeping up with the steam drill. Shoop, shoop, shoop. I'm showing off. I add a few flourishes.

Later, cooking supper, I reach up to the cupboard for the olive oil, and my arm won't do it. Huh? Slowly all my muscles from the waist up go, "Hey, remember us, you show-off floozy?" John Henry did DIE with a hammer in his hand, after all.