Speaking of the Forecast, I severed all further communications. The latest love note informed me I should expect to wake to a light dusting of snow Wednesday, 1-3 inches Thursday afternoon, and 4-8 inches Friday night into Saturday morning. High temperatures through the weekend will hover between 10 and 15 degrees. Winter, our relationship is officially over.
I woke dreading the task ahead of me. What I put off yesterday, I must deal with today. I donned my Sasquatch Suit and hit the button to open the garage door. It lifted three feet and stopped. The opener has a rebellious streak, and when it gets too cold, she refuses to raise the door without assistance. That means me lifting while the motor is engaged. I can’t accomplish this feat from the inside since it’s impossible to hit start, negotiate the crowded path, and lift before everything stops. The logistics only work from the keypad located outside. Several minutes later, after trudging through the white powder, a false start, a reset, and uttering the magical curse words, the portal opened, and I victoriously grasp the salvation shovel. There was music, the clouds parted, sunbeams glinted off the clear plastic scoop, and tears formed in my eyes. Or maybe that was the wind blowing snow in my face.
The actual shoveling portion of the show was uneventful until I got to the front porch. Ice encased the two steps. As I chiseled with the back of my blade, a frigid droplet targeted the only centimeter of exposed skin, landed on my neck, and trickled down my spine. Hello Momma. Attached to the gutters, evil icicle stalactites lurked, biding their time, planning the perfect moment to let go, come crashing downward intending to inflict bodily harm. Not on my watch.
I waved the shovel over my head and connected with nothing but air. I stepped on the first riser, swung again, and on this attempt, I shattered the crystal demons. But now I had another problem. A snowdrift curled over the gutter. It was a potential avalanche. I saw their diabolical plan. First, the frozen water daggers would take me down while the snow buried me alive. When spring arrived, and they found my body, the killers would get away scot-free. I raised Salvation Shovel, and like Excalibur, he sliced thru my attackers. Dead snowflakes coated my hat, face, arms, and I sputtered but won the day. My neighbors must think I’m crazy.
Wait until tomorrow when the roof rake and ice-melt arrive, and I take my game up a level.
Are you playing in the snow?
Keep on writing.
Jo Hawk The Writer