Snow falls into every life - some shoveling required

I peer out the window. Left. Right. Across the street.

They’ve done it again.

The neighbors’ driveways and front walks are as bare as Mother Hubbard’s cupboard.

When, I wonder, did they clear away all that snow? I didn’t hear the scrape of shovels against concrete, the whir of snowblowers. Did the snow gods drop their bounty of white only on my property?

I sigh. I’ve got a bad case of snow shovel envy.

It’s similar, I suppose, to what afflicts neighbors who try to outdo one another with Christmas decorations or who must have the greenest grass on the block.

My first winters in this house, I tried to ignore the snow that piled up in my drive and walkways. It always melted, except for those icy treads where my car packed down the snow.

Then I heard about municipal snow laws. Imagine having to tell my California friends I was jailed for harboring snow.

With visions of snow police in my head, and, if truth be told, my ego deflated by neighbors’ pristine driveways, I began making half-hearted swipes. I used my garden spade. My hoe. My broom.

Finally, I went shovel shopping. Who knew there were so many kinds? Straight handles. Curved handles. Square bottoms. Wavy bottoms. Metal. Plastic. Silver. Red.

I chose a classy green model that reminded me of spring. The directions said all I had to do was push — no lifting, no flinging.

I could hardly wait for it to snow. And when it did, I shoveled away, then stood back and admired my handiwork. Then I made the mistake of looking across the street. My neighbor’s driveway didn’t have a single icy patch, not one. I looked at my driveway. The ugly patches mocked me. And how did I miss the left side of the drive?

I trudged back into the house — and started spying. I needed to know how expert shovelers work. What arm techniques do they use? Do I shovel too hard or too light? Too fast? Too slow? Should I shovel down the driveway in some places and horizontally in others? Maybe they have a secret shovel they bought on a home shopping network?

One morning, I hear it: the sound of metal screeching on concrete. There in the dawn, a particularly artistic shoveler dances gracefully with the drifts. He is one with his shovel. His shovel has a curved face — a model I had passed up.

Instead of getting a new shovel, I sprinkle my driveway with those salt-melting granules advertised as safe for plants and dogs. I would prefer a nuclear-like meltdown. The next morning I rush out to find the pellets have seared through the snow in tiny dots that look like pointillism art. But this is certainly not Georges Seurat’s “Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte.” In fact, after I do more damage with the shovel, the result is more reminiscent of Pablo Picasso’s “Guernica.” And what are those insidious pockmarks in the concrete?

One morning I notice that none of my neighbors has shoveled. I rush out and madly work on the driveway. My face and gloved hands are numb before I finish, yet I race along the sidewalk, too, flinging the powdery snow here and there.

I am first!

Throughout the morning I check to see if my victory stands. No other driveway is shoveled. By early afternoon I begin to worry. What am I missing? Was no one supposed to shovel today?

Later, I peer out the window and gasp. Wind-driven snow has ruined my masterpiece. Oh, well. I had my taste of victory.

But after dinner I hear the scraping of shovel on concrete. Four doors down on the other side of the street I see a lone shoveler. The shoveler’s work is fresh. Mine wiped away.

I look at the thermometer, hardly visible in the fog. Do I really want to go out there? Shovel twice in one day? Won’t it be better to gracefully acknowledge defeat?

I pull on my boots, throw my coat on over my pajamas, tug on gloves, and grab my shovel.

CONTACT THE WRITER: 636-0371 or carol.mcgraw@gazette.com

TO OUR READERS: Submit your personal essay of about 500 words. E-mail dena.rosenberry@gazette.com with “That’s Life” in the subject line. Or mail to: Attn: Dena Rosenberry, That’s Life, The Gazette, 30 S. Prospect St., Colorado Springs 80903. You will

receive a response only if your essay is chosen for publication.