My Arms

They hurt!  Four hours of shoveling are three and a  half too many, but that’s what was needed to clear eleven inches of snow that had fallen starting Saturday night and continuing into Sunday morning.  Very thankful for Lacey’s help.

About one and a half of those hours was spent clearing the end of the drive after the plows came by as I shoveled.  I am sincerely thankful for their work, but I wish they could lift the blade or change the angle in a way that would prevent clogging  the end of cleared drives.  There must be a way.  Maybe it would slow them down too much.  I don’t know.  I should give them the benefit of the doubt.  Still, as I tire while clearing bigger snows it is difficult to be reasonable.  Anger arises.

I could wait six or twelve hours to increase the chance plows will finish, but I like to keep the end of the drive clear even when we don’t mean to take a car out.  Seems prudent as our low cars would struggle to clear the bigger berms.  Who knows when an emergency arises?  So I start to work as soon as they pass.  

I could buy a snowblower, even had one and sold it, but nine out of ten snowfalls are nice to clear with my own power.  The exercise is good.  I enjoy being out in the cold (as long as I get out before my neighbors’ snowblowers are fired up).  Nice not to use gas.  Shovels don’t need much maintenance.  As I age, though, I will need to revisit that option.

For now it is me and my shovel versus the big bad plows.  Three of those beastly machines came by while I shoveled.  As the first neared I motioned with my arms to suggest the operator raise the blade.  He didn’t make eye contact and deposited an epic berm.  I cleared it in an hour, a very tough hour.  As if on cue, a second plow made a lumbering approach.  I stood at the end of the drive and shot anger beams from my eyes, but my beams missed their mark–he plowed me in again and continued a conversation on his phone.  Maybe I should have  removed my sunglasses.  The third time I didn’t try to communicate.  I only had energy enough to trudge to the end of the drive and accept the role of Sisyphus.

Eventually I accepted it was time to put down the shovel.  Once I did, it was easy to let go of the frustration.  Lacey and Frida reminded me that snow can be more than something to be moved aside.  Frida showed us she still has springs in her walking sticks.  Nice distance, girl!fb

Lacey likes to make paths and pods to make it easier for Frida to get around and do what dogs do.  Isn’t that the sweetest thing ever?lfs

As fun as that was, we spent most of the rest of the day inside.  I roasted chestnuts in a cast iron pot using directions from epicurious.  A little oil during the initial roast and a steam at the end were new to me techniques.  I liked the result.rc

I also made a wonderful lasagna.  The foundation noodles were prepped with red sauce.  The first floor housed Fieldroast Italian sausage with onions, garlic, fennel seed and red sauce.  The second floor housed sautéed spinach with garlic and lemon, which was smothered in a white sauce flavored with nutmeg.  The roof, as you can see, was covered in red sauce and Daiya white shreds.  Might be the best I’ve ever had.  Horn tooting complete.ble

There it is.  I hope you are doing well.


4 responses to “My Arms

  1. I have done the same thing. The plows came by 3 times once. It is crazy. Dad

    • Thanks for writing, Dad. I knew I could count on your support!

      My neighbor just said he knew a guy who started bringing the plow operators coffee and he never got plowed in again. A nice gesture, but it also shows operators can avoid plowing people in. If we all brought them coffee, they’d never get any plowing done for all the bathroom breaks they’d have to take. A conundrum.

  2. Sorry to hear about the Sisyphean snow shoveling, but I really came here to let you know that your lasagna description got a big chuckle from both me and my sweetheart. Sounds delicious too!

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