Monday, January 24, 2005
Whiteout in Wisconsin
Friday night after work I got out the shovel and got to work. It was 12:35, still snowing, but I couldn't park the car. So I started shoveling. I like this. Not the shoveling, so much, as I like beating the neighborhood in shoveling. Don't really care about the lawn during spring, summer or fall. But shoveling -- that's my forte.
Ninety minutes later we were shoveled, but the snow was still coming. The paper had predicted three to six inches. This was no six inches. Worse: the wind blew up and down the street, piling up drifts.
10:00 am I was out again. The paper said we got at least eleven inches. The alley, sidewalk, and porch all looked like I hadn't touched them. So I started shoveling. The snow had stopped but the wind was up. Carl across the alley had his blower going, which helped. I finished, but immediately noticed the drifting start. So I grabbed the bag of salt and laid her down: all 50 pounds. Now all that drift would be in for a fight. I was the only house in the neighborhood in front of which pavement was visible.
I ran that afternoon, taking Inidana up Oklahoma, to KK and then up Ellen to Delaware. The fun was at the beginning, jumping the piles at the end of the sidewalk and into the street. But by the time Delaware turned toward the lake, there was no more blockage, and the wind off the lake gusted so hard that visibility was overwhelmed. Then I hit the bigger houses of Superior, where they must not have felt like shoveling. You have to make a real strong effort, sprinting into the head of a four-foot drift, and then run like a lifeguard through the waves: real high knees, land right back on the heels. All that plow snow wipes out the initial burst of energy, but there's no way to take it evenly; you may as well sit down like a mountain climber with his back to the wind.
I went to work and came back to a couple inches of drift on my property. Determined to beat it for good, I purchased 100 more pounds of salt. So I started shoveling. And then I salted. It's pristine. People marvel at my sidewalk like it's the new exhibit at the art museum. They point to the thick, bumpy layer of salt over the cement. People come from the surrounding blocks to walk on my walk, to admire its clean perfection. They bring their children; they show them the clean lines between the sidewalk blocks; they point out the tufts of grass peaking through on the seams because I shoveled along the edges. And they say to each other, "I've never seen such a clean walk before. This is what shoveling should be like. I wish my sidewalk could be just like this." I see them now, as I look from my attic window -- even though it is dark out. They still come, this late, to see, to view, to admire, kneel down, feel the free wet of the rock beneath them, and pay thanks.
Ninety minutes later we were shoveled, but the snow was still coming. The paper had predicted three to six inches. This was no six inches. Worse: the wind blew up and down the street, piling up drifts.
10:00 am I was out again. The paper said we got at least eleven inches. The alley, sidewalk, and porch all looked like I hadn't touched them. So I started shoveling. The snow had stopped but the wind was up. Carl across the alley had his blower going, which helped. I finished, but immediately noticed the drifting start. So I grabbed the bag of salt and laid her down: all 50 pounds. Now all that drift would be in for a fight. I was the only house in the neighborhood in front of which pavement was visible.
I ran that afternoon, taking Inidana up Oklahoma, to KK and then up Ellen to Delaware. The fun was at the beginning, jumping the piles at the end of the sidewalk and into the street. But by the time Delaware turned toward the lake, there was no more blockage, and the wind off the lake gusted so hard that visibility was overwhelmed. Then I hit the bigger houses of Superior, where they must not have felt like shoveling. You have to make a real strong effort, sprinting into the head of a four-foot drift, and then run like a lifeguard through the waves: real high knees, land right back on the heels. All that plow snow wipes out the initial burst of energy, but there's no way to take it evenly; you may as well sit down like a mountain climber with his back to the wind.
I went to work and came back to a couple inches of drift on my property. Determined to beat it for good, I purchased 100 more pounds of salt. So I started shoveling. And then I salted. It's pristine. People marvel at my sidewalk like it's the new exhibit at the art museum. They point to the thick, bumpy layer of salt over the cement. People come from the surrounding blocks to walk on my walk, to admire its clean perfection. They bring their children; they show them the clean lines between the sidewalk blocks; they point out the tufts of grass peaking through on the seams because I shoveled along the edges. And they say to each other, "I've never seen such a clean walk before. This is what shoveling should be like. I wish my sidewalk could be just like this." I see them now, as I look from my attic window -- even though it is dark out. They still come, this late, to see, to view, to admire, kneel down, feel the free wet of the rock beneath them, and pay thanks.
