“It had been snowing through the night, & wind shook the house all into the next day. Anything still leaning against the house clattered across the floorboards of the porch, in bangs & punches of “what could that possibly be?”. A shovel? A sled? A flower pot? I thought I’d weighted everything down or put it away. But round about the cloak of the 2nd night, the flakes began to grow mild, coming fewer, and farther apart. The departure of the drama of storms brings relief, but also a melancholic sorrow. Things must now return to normal. In my case, it was time to test my freshly appointed John Deere Gator’s plow, with a new winch and chains. I drifted to my wood shed door, gazing out as I pulled on my equally new, rubberized, insulated gloves. I’m no stranger to snow removal, and yet, each year seems to bring techniques hitherto unexplored. Not quite psychologically prepared yet, to work machinery, I searched my truck for a hand tool: a brush. Warming up to things, is my M.O. The age old trope of a dog circling round its tail as a way of divining the perfect location to lie down, might describe it best. The brush would do. I love cleaning snow off my vehicles, and have never wanted a garage. But should I also shovel out the open truck bed? No, I figured: that was too obvious an evasion of the inevitable. After a good 15 minutes spent delighted by manicuring the exterior of my warming truck, I paused to think. It was really get dark now. I pulled open the sliding barn door, deftly (I thought) squeaking through the very small space between the old barrel wood stove and the gator, simultaneously snagging my pants on the chains. Hmm. Not off to a good start. Pulling my leg back the way it had come, I tried a similar approach, but this time sucking in my gut. Once successfully passing the rear wheel, I flopped into the driver’s seat, feeling emotionally exhausted. I looked down at the controls. Or where I thought they were, remembering suddenly that the electrical wiring in the barn was not working, and that I had no lights to turn on, to see anything. My phone flashlight was also broken. I was sitting in the dark, on a combustible vehicle, ready to combust, and I could barely find the key, feeling my way, but certainly not the headlight switch, the gear shift or the plow mechanism, the plow being left down, on the cement floor, rather like an oversized paper weight. Did I feel relieved that I would have to go find a real, old fashioned flashlight? No, not really, just stupid, and old fashioned. Plus, I would have to wedge myself out of the barn again, by the seat of my pants, as it were. Well, let’s skip ahead. PS thank you Suz for having bought me an oversized Mag Lite last year. The night air was bracing; my spirits still inexplicably resigned to doing whatever it took to plow myself out since my plow guy quit. Yes, it was my idea to borrow a utility vehicle from my son, who didn’t use his in the winter. Yes, he went out of his way, juggling babies and framing jobs, and his culinary duties, to set me up with my equipment, haggling prices on my behalf, and doing all the research necessary to not be cheated. So obviously I owed it to everyone, to get on the horse and ride. Balancing the flashlight awkwardly, I located my dashboard in the end, and drove out into the night. Taking five or so passes, with a kind of cocky glee, I felt empowered. That was before the winch cable snapped. I strode back into the house, leaving the inert vehicle where it had betrayed me, thankfully not blocking the driveway I share with my neighbors. I texted Trever, the nicest diesel mechanic I know, intuitively feeling my way forward, towards a repair. “Hey buddy”, I quipped. “How’s it hangin’?” Actually, I didn’t say that. I said: “I hope you guys are doing well! So, I got my gator outfitted with a plow ...” and you can imagine the rest.”
