The supply chain is broken. The supplies to tackle the snowdrift above my front door and my icy steps are in limbo. An email notification informed me neither my ice-melt nor my roof rake would arrive as promised. The roof rake is out of stock, with no projected delivery day, so I canceled the order. I doubt I will have a use for it in June. There is a back-order on the ice-melt, with expected arrival on the 17th. The extended forecast calls for snow on eight of the next fourteen days, with temperatures never breaking freezing. Yep, I might still need to thaw some ice. I checked availability and shipment dates for flame throwers, just in case.

The dusting of snow also did not arrive as expected. I thought I had dodged a bullet, but as I was contemplating Plan B, the lead-gray clouds puked, perfect special snowflakes all over my clean driveway. Ugh. So, back to Plan B. Step One -I need mood music. I turn the volume to rafter-shaking and cue the “Rocky” Soundtrack. I move to the next phase, where I shovel snow in my house slippers after removing the second-floor window above the porch. It is a double-hung Cottage Window that removes easily for cleaning. The area outside is a 3 x 3 section, and I can reach the entire space without leaning out too far.

I attack the 2 ft tall pile and push layers of snow over the brink. Something moves on the street below. It’s Mrs. Nosy Butt-Insky from the next block, out for her daily reconnaissance mission, code name, W.A.L.K. I pretend I don’t see her. She stops, waves, and when I don’t respond, she yells, “What are you doing?” A thousand retorts line up, ready to pepper spray her with any answer but the obvious. I need time to censor my thoughts, so I place my hand to my ear and shout, “What?”

She moves closer, cups her mittened hands around her mouth.

“I said, what are you doing?”

“Eye of the Tiger” is blasting, but I don’t turn it down. I push everything I could say from my mind like I push icy, snowy chunks over the edge to explode on the steps and sidewalk.

“I’m shoveling snow.”

Her hands fall to her side, she blinks and shuffles her feet. I can hear the gears working in her head. They are louder than my music, and I silently wish for her shuffling boots to carry her down the street. No such luck. She cups her mouth again and yells, “Why?”

“It’s blocking my view.”

I couldn’t help it the words escaped into the frigid air before I knew what I was saying.

She turned, looking at the house behind her, then back at me.

“Your view of what?”

“Don’t stay out too long. Frostbite is nasty.” I wave and send another clump flying.

“Living In America” echoes between the houses as I finish my job.

How do you explain the obvious?

_________________________________________

Keep on writing.

Jo Hawk The Writer