The weather of my discontent

I remember with crushing clarity the last time I held a snow shovel in my hands. Chances are reasonably good that there are a few other people who remember it, too.

It was 1996. My then-wife, oldest child and I lived in an early 20th-century house nestled tightly among many other early 20th-century houses in an early 20th-century neighborhood in Bellevue, Ky. We lived on Taylor Avenue, a few blocks up the hill from the Ohio River, with the Cincinnati skyline visible from our backyard. Being an early 20th-century neighborhood, it was built for early 20th-century transportation needs. In the early 20th century, many urban-core families did not own cars. Those who did own cars owned one car. That one car was not parked in a driveway, because every square inch of these lots was meant for houses that were barely arms-width apart. There was no room for garages or driveways. These few early 20th-century families who owned a car parked that car in front of the house, on the street.

We, of course, lived in that early 20th-century neighborhood in the late 20th century. In the late 20th century, pretty much every household in any American city that wasn’t New York, Boston or Washington, D.C., had at least one car. In the late 20th century, it was generally the case that all adult members of the household worked outside the home, at a job site that was more than walking distance away. This required most households to have more than one car. Our household was among them. And our two cars, like all of the other cars on that block, were parked on Taylor Avenue, dutifully lined up one behind the other.

On this late-20th century Sunday afternoon in the winter of 1996 — it might have been January, it might have been February — I was required by either city ordinance or common courtesy to clear 16 inches of snow from the portion of the shared sidewalk that was the width of our house. Since I had to be outside anyway, I also needed to clear a path from our house to the sidewalk. And because our big stupid dog Sam wouldn’t walk on the snow, I had to create a snow tunnel from the back porch and out into the backyard so that he had a place to poop.

Oh, and I had to drive to work later that afternoon. I needed to dig out one of our two cars, which not only were sitting in 16 inches of fresh snow but had also been covered by the snow thrown off by the city snowplow, which had made a pass along Taylor Avenue earlier that morning. I was grateful for the snowplow’s work, because it had cleared the path on which I planned to drive. The car I chose to uncover was our 1992 Saturn SL2, a compact sedan, which was in snow to at least the tops of its tires. (Our other car was an equally compact hatchback, with smaller tires.)

With the sidewalk cleared, the path from the house done and the backyard path created for the big stupid dog, I stepped out onto Taylor Avenue and began the work of digging out the car. This was not going to be a trivial task. My drive to work was less than three miles — basically, down the hill and over the Ohio; on most days, it took me more time to find parking than to actually get to the office — but given the conditions, I planned to budget at least 30 minutes for that drive. So I had a little more than an hour to dig out the car.

I commenced to digging. On this quiet winter afternoon, no cars were out, so I was able to safely start work on the street side. I created a pile of snow behind the Saturn, between the sidewalk and the street, careful to keep the sidewalk clear just in case anybody decided that was going to be a great day for a walk. The snow was wet and heavy. I was in my mid-20s at the time, but my mind started playing archived reels of stories of people suffering heart attacks shoveling snow.

It took me a bit more than a half-hour of cold hard labor to finish my work on the street side, but I still had to clear some of the snow from the front and passenger side of the car in order to have any hope of driving it out. I took a deep inhale, watched the ensuing exhale, adjusted my stocking cap and went back to work.

As the clock ticked toward the end of my hour, I was looking forward to a warm shower and mentally plotting out my best route across the river. Then I heard it. I heard a low hum approaching from the direction of the river, a hum like an engine of a motor vehicle, but not a car or truck. That hum was the unmistakable hum of public-works equipment. Then I saw the yellow roof, the single light mounted in the middle, the one windshield wiper doing its job for the man sitting in the one-person cab.

And then I saw the snow flying to the sides in either direction.

It was the snowplow. The snowplow was humming up the road at slightly more than walking speed. It had some work to do. And its work was about to undo all of mine.

All I could do was stand on the sidewalk I had cleared, and watch.

Within a few seconds, the Saturn was again covered in snow up to the tops of its tires, the snowplow driver either unaware or (more likely) unconcerned that I did not have another hour to dig before I was to report to work.

As the snowplow hummed away, winter’s quiet settled over Taylor Avenue once again.

All alone under that gray Greater Cincinnati sky, I raised my shovel, took a deep cold breath, and yelled as loud as I could, “GOD … (breath) … DAMMIT!”

My curse echoed off the other houses, the other piles of snow, and was the only sound anybody anywhere in Bellevue, Ky., heard that afternoon, other than the hum of that snowplow.

I saw my then-wife in the doorway, holding our 2-year-old, trying not to laugh as soon as it became evident that I wasn’t having the heart attack I was fearing.

I almost threw the shovel, then reconsidered. I walked in defeat through the new pile of snow the snowplow created, across my cleared sidewalk and up my cleared path, up the salted steps into the house.

I sighed deeply and called a co-worker who had a four-wheel-drive Jeep Cherokee. I briefly explained my plight and asked if he could come across the river from the office to pick me up.

“Wait, you live in Kentucky, right?” asked the Ohio-based co-worker, from inside an office building that I could literally see from my backyard. “Yeah,” I answered.

He thought for a second. “Nah, we don’t need you that badly tonight.”

Later that year, we moved to Florida. We didn’t move just to run away from winter, but it certainly was a welcome benefit. I made a solemn vow to never hold a snow shovel in my hands ever again.

Two years ago, I moved to South Carolina. It’s not one of winter’s prime hangouts, but it stops by occasionally. It is expected to pay an unwelcome visit this weekend.

I currently sit under a winter storm watch for my first time since 1996. I no longer own a snow shovel, and still plan never to do so again.

Thankfully, I also don’t need to go anywhere. If something weird happens, well, that four-wheel-drive I don’t really need might very well come in handy.