Remembering Nancy V: Shoveling Snow

Four small snowfalls over the long weekend. Pretty across the landscape. Out back, snow clings to the to the east side of the long, high tree-trunks and softens the corners of everything beneath the forest canopy. No more than four to six inches, with drifts accumulating here and there among the more open spaces. Out front, a series of wavy drifts are deeper in places where the southwest wind blows freely across the icy pond.

Sunny out. Pale blue sky, not much wind. A degree or two below freezing. Bright sunlight softens and dampens the snow just enough to make it pack. Time to break out the snow-blower for the first time this winter. I've been shoveling so far this season. Been calling that my work-outs three or four days during the weeks before Christmas. Easy workouts. Small gifts to myself.

I clear a small space in front of the garage doors, then on out back along the brick walkway to the barn. Just one narrow pass going back. Back deck first, just for the warmth of it. I slide the barn door aside and switch on the lights. I dig the blower out and set it up in the middle of the floor.

It's a fairly big unit, five gears including reverse, large yawning mouth. Impressive looking Briggs&Stratton motor. Recalling how I performed an end-of-season tune-up before stowing it safely away last spring fills me with a split-second shot of warm pride. I quickly check the choke connection and plug, the throttle cable, driving mechanisms and blade. Everything's sound.

Nineteen years young, this trusty machine. Well-maintained. Reliable. Should serve well again this winter.

I plug-in the electric starter wire, set the choke and throttle, and press the starter button. I kneel beside the engine congratulating myself on the satisfying sound of the motor turning over . I love it when things work. I wait patiently for the inevitable sound of the motor firing, catching hold, sputtering to life: ooh-rah-rah-rah-OOH-rah-rah-rah. A handful of cheery and promising blips, then ooh-rah-rahRAH-ooh-rah-rah-rah-RAH-ooh-ooh-ooh. . . .

I drop to my other knee and shift my weight, kneeling closer to the carburetor, checking adjustments. Here begins the earnest conversation with myself: Yeah! Settings're okay. Plenty-a-gas. I sniff: not flooded yet. The gas tank's full. Hmmmnnnn!???

Several more adjustments. Several more tries. And I'm satisfied: Looks like Big-Dog's dead for now. Hmmmmnn!? I pull the starter plug, move the levers into neutral positions and stand up resolved to shovel.

I shrug, shake my head, and just barely resist addressing the reluctant machine. Then I kneel once more and double-check all connections. Nope! Should start. But won't.

A second thought: I find a 3/8's open-end wrench, remove the copper-tube. Yep! Gas's reaching the carburetor. New plug. Wire's in place. Caught fire in the fall. I shrug my shoulders. I know I've exhausted my slim genius for machines.

I slide the barn door closed and lock it. Start another conversation with myself: You gotta shovel. Time for a workout anyway. Most of four days I've been tryna shake the flu -- or whatever it was that at first had me a little more than just uncomfortable, then got me REALLY uncomfortable by Sunday.

I turn from the barn door, stand straight and shake out my body. Wiggle my head and neck. Rotate slow-full at the waist. Gently drop my hands to my toes. Feelin' mostly okay.

More inside conversation: Whatever it was had me down, tried ta kill me. Didn't die, though. Enough to say that light at the end of the tunnel turned out to be the bathroom light. Upset stomach. Booming bowels. Four pounds lost, I didn't have to lose. This: three weeks after my ordinary flu shot, and the vaunted -- but scarce one -- for the exotic N1H1 malady.

Food Poisoning? Come-on! My cooking's bad, but my refrigeration's good. Hadda be the flu.

I widen the path back toward the garage. Feeling strong. Inside my hooded sweatshirt I'm snug. Muscles're gettin' all warm&loose. This's good. . . .

Once out front in the garage, I make a note: Slow&Easy does it Robby! Keep yer-heart-rate-down-reasonable. Alternate arms. Use yer legs. Rotate hips and lower-back evenly. Stretch-as-you-go. Flu didn't getcha. Mind the snow. Small bites like always.

First, the walkway up to the front door and the porch slab. Next, I stand for a moment contemplating the wide-deep, turn-around-slab in front of the garage. Biggest piece-a-concrete. Sad about that blower. . . . I check my watch and make my first center cut. Thirteen busy minutes. It's done.

I decide to do the drive in two bites instead of three. I'm thinking, Right here at the 45-degree turn. Here's where she always comes outa the house to help:

"Hey Robby! You leavin' any snow fer me?!"

"Yeah! I always leave it alongside the drive for-ya. Outa yer-way. . . . 'Cause I love ya."

Right here at this turn. Here's where she meets me and we say the same thing every time. And she leans in close and kisses me on the lips with a big pop. Then she shoves her head down into the place where my muffler parts the zipper of my jacket. Shoves her gloved hands down deep into my parka-pockets and wiggles in tight while I draw her close. I lift her off her feet with a big hug.

But she's not here yet. So I shovel the center groove back toward the house, then turn and shovel the third time. Wide groove. Shorter shovel-shoves and throws to the side of the drive.

I bend at the waist and start the throws.

Swish-a-Chunk. Swish-a-Chunk. Swish-a-Chunk. I count. About 35 throws, the east side's clear. I lean over and rotate my back. Feelin' loose and strong. I turn toward Hickory Lane

. . .and suddenly she's with me: "Hiya Robby". . .and the kiss. And the scent of her blond hair in my nostrils as she snuggles down into my muffler. . .and her hands in my pockets. . .and the hug I feel. . .coming so real. . . .

She unzips my jacket and slides her bare hands up beneath my sweatshirt. I know she's checking my heart-rate. Her lips on my carotid. . .makes twice.

So I reach around behind her, press her to me close, until the palm of my right hand rests on top of hers to the left of my breastbone. I raise my left hand and watch the sweep second-hand on my watch click around the dial once. Heart's a little faster than I expect -- or like. I nod and think: Well!? You were all vomit&loose-bowels this whole past weekend. . . .

I nod toward the bench in the small grove separating my neighbor's place from ours. "Wanna sit awhile?"

She smiles and nods. I step over a drift, drawing her with me. I lean slightly forward, and she lays her head between my shoulder-blades, wraps her arms around my shoulders, rides quietly along. I scuff my feet and plow us a path toward the bench. I close my knees as I sit, and she sits on my thighs, scrunches back close. We sit there maybe 15 minutes all quiet. Until I feel my heart-rate's all slowed down. I slowly rise, see her slip through my thighs 'til she's sitting comfortably alone.

I lean to kiss her gently. I half-straighten, and she smiles fondly up into my face: "I came to remind you, Robby. Mind your heart-rate. I love you." Her hand brushes my cheek.

Then she's gone. But I can still feel the warmth of her hand on my cheek. And her scent fills my nostrils. And I'm still touched by her presence. And grateful.

It takes me another 45 minutes to complete the drive and shovel the mail truck path clear.

Coulda done it faster. And prob'ly would've. But I kept on thinking: If I don't do as Nancy asks me, she just might quit comin' around. I don't want that.

A guy needs someone around
who really cares.

HAPPY NEW YEAR!
Keep Your Dreams Alive