Pity Party

I'm having a pity party. Last night while I slept, Mother Nature dumped another foot and a half of snow on us. I was still in my pajamas when I made the first attack. Dixie, my 11-inch tall bichon, needed to go out and there was no way she was going to plow through all that snow. I never would have found her again.

I made another attack after fueling up on Cheerios. My neighbor pulled his truck into his nicely plowed drive way and waved at me as I struggled to clean enough snow off the driveway to get my car out of the garage. I smiled back and gave him the one finger wave -- not truly effective when you're wearing mittens.

The snow is heavy and it's deep. Shoveling isn't so bad, it's carrying it to the other side of the yard to find a place that isn't already piled six feet high with shoveled snow. I'm considering getting out the wheelbarrow and hauling it, but can't get the gate open wide enough to allow the wheelbarrow to pass.

And in all the excitement (not), I forgot to feed the dog. I'm going back to bed.

Good Neighbors

March has come in like a lion -- or an enraged abominable snowman. I got up this morning and shoveled four inches of snow from my driveway and sidewalks. Work sent us home early because of the weather and I shoveled another four inches when I got home. Three hours later another layer of that heavy white stuff had blanketed all my hard work. I wonder if it's too late to buy a snow blower? But then I'd have to be able to get out of the garage, navigate slippery roads and zero visibility and hope the local Menards hadn't also closed because of the weather. Then again, maybe I'll use "The Secret" and just wish for a neighbor who knew how to use his snow blower on some one's driveway but his own.

In all fairness, my neighbors have been known to shovel me out. But it's sporadic at best. And I'm perfectly capable of shoveling my own property. It's just that I was brought up to expect more from people. When I was a kid I remember weather like this. My dad would bundle up, rev up the snow blower and clean up half the block. First he'd plow the driveway -- ours and the one we shared with the newlyweds next door, making sure they were always able to get to their biweekly church meetings. Then Dad would plow our sidewalks from the back to the front boulevard. From there he'd take a left and clear the sidewalks all the way to the corner. His best friend lived four houses in the other direction, so he'd backtrack and clear a path four houses the other direction. He did this every time there was a heavy snowfall. No complaints. No excuses.

They don't make neighbors like Dad anymore. Mom is eighty-two and still lives in the house I grew up in. And she still has the same next door neighbors that were there when Dad was alive. They aren't newlyweds anymore, but they still go to church twice a week and if you call and get their answering machine, you'll hear a daily Bible verse. But when it snows, these neighbors gets out their snow blower and clear off their own sidewalks and their side of the driveway, leaving the other half (my mom's) as Father Winter left it. No remorse. No apologies.