With each snowstorm, my spirit gets weaker and my driveway smaller. I envision the day in the not-so-distant future where my driveway will be precisely the length of my car and the width of my car plus me. Within a storm or two after that, I anticipate being trapped in my house, my entire driveway being consumed by my car and hardened snowdrifts. I will rely on the kindness of strangers to buy me groceries, hurling food to me from the street – two feet from what was the curb pre-snow. This exercise will not serve the bananas well. As my arms fill up with food (all going well), I will wave sadly (with my head, I guess, since my arms are full) and shout, “Thank you! See you in the spring,” not having any assurances of when that will be.
From inside my house, I will hear the hum of nearby snowblowers and sense the smugness of their owners, with their pristine, clean-to-the pavement driveways. I will hear the roar of the plow, whose driver has chosen this year to exercise exceptional diligence in plowing my street (kudos to him/her on his/her work ethic, but I preferred the quick sweep of yesteryear; that is, last year).
As is so often the case in February, I remember spring and summer fondly, and trust they will come again in time. Until then, I walk carefully and carry a big shovel.