Snow Depth

I love the winters of the Upper Midwest and, in particular, frequent and heavy snowfalls that create winterscapes that artists can only begin to capture. I yearn for the deep snows of my youth, when I could barely see over the banks of the freshly-shoveled white powder on each side of the driveway.

Of course, those memories were shaped, in large part, when I was a young boy and without the responsibility of keeping the drive and sidewalks cleared of the white stuff. While I still appreciate the beauty of a new snowfall, I also recognize the collective weight of those crystalline flakes and the toll that such heft can take on my entire body. So it was with both determination and healthy respect that I bundled myself up last Sunday to handle the latest six or so inches.

I can faithfully recount that my confidence and anticipation for this pending work were both high: a snowblower, a firm resolve, and the aforementioned enjoyment of snow created a real eagerness on my part. When I raised the garage door and noted the snow depth at six inches or more, I inwardly congratulated myself on a late-fall servicing of the blower in preparation for just such a day. I primed the engine, turned the key, and pulled the starter rope.

Right out of the engine housing. There is no optimum time for equipment malfunction, of course, but breaking a starter rope in the face of a winter blizzard is particularly disheartening. But there I stood, rope in hand, driveway stretched out before me, the six inches of white carpet now curiously looking more like eight or ten inches of concrete wall. Not being prone to profanity, I said nothing out loud.

I considered my few options over the next several minutes, weighing the costs and benefits of each. At this snowy moment, hiring a contractor seemed unlikely and probably inordinately expensive. The neighborhood is rather bereft of shovel-capable kids and my own adult-age children were not expected for another day or so. I might have been more excited about tackling the drifts manually myself, but for the lingering pains in my back and shoulders from the previous digging just days before. But all factors considered, it appeared to me as though I was nominated and elected to dig.

As I emerged from the garage, shovel in hand, I immediately noted the truck parked in front of my neighbor’s house, just down and across the street. From my neighbor’s driveway, snow cascaded over the shrubbery in a steady and solid arc, the certain sign of a snowblower at work. Closer inspection revealed three young men at work, steering blowers and snow streams from the drive in a symphony of sight and sound. The serendipity proved too much to ignore: I crossed the street and my fingers to see whether these guys might be up for one more site.

I tried to look as feeble, needy and desperate as I could, but the answer was predictable. They were already backed up and behind schedule, and the snow was forecast to continue through the day. I would have to be far down on their list and in any event not cleared until the following day. Well, nothing ventured, nothing gained and I accepted the verdict with grace.

At that moment, the young man with the three blowers and five shovels in varying sizes bestowed some of his own grace. He said, simply, “Take one of our blowers and use it if you want. You’ve got a tough driveway there.” And without further explanation or condition, he pulled one of the unused blowers from the back of his truck, checked the fuel level, pulled the starter rope (without breaking it) and gave it over to my incredulous, waiting hands. All I needed to do when finished was leave the machine at the end of my driveway, where he would pick it up later. No fee, no conditions, no hesitation on his part, only the immediate and generous offer to use his equipment.

My stunned reaction likely went unnoticed as the fellow addressed his customer’s driveway once again, throwing snow almost before I could even thank him. I simply turned and aimed my newfound machine to the drifts of my own yard, nearly giddy with the voracious appetite of those blower blades. Each bite through a drift caused a new wave of gratitude and amazement and by the time I had finished the entire area, I was fairly consumed by the desire to express my thanks. I left the blower at the top of my driveway so that the proprietor would have to come near the house to claim it and I would have time enough to run outdoors to catch him.

When he showed up, nearly 90 minutes later, I went out to meet him with the tale of my sore shoulders and a 20-dollar bill for his generous act. He seemed surprised that I would even offer him money; he refused it at first, saying that he simply had been moved to say, “Merry Christmas” in this way and he had been pleased to do it. But when I shook his hand and offered my own greetings, I pressed the bill into his palm with the promise that his act had been worth far more than the currency, that he had affirmed to me what a day can be like when we look out for one another as a matter of course rather than a matter of obligation or expected gain. Based on our respective smiles, I think we both felt the lesson of the day…..

~ by Steve Sheppard on December 29, 2007.