The shoveler

I didn't have to shovel that much as a child. Mostly walkways and the base of our driveway, but the rest was always taken care of by my uncle's plow or my father's snowblower. It wasn't that I disliked the task, it just never came up very often. This trend continued during my first six years living in Boston. I'd shovel out my car while landlords or college workers took care of driveways and front steps. It wasn't until the Professor and I landed in our last apartment in Boston that I caught the shoveling bug.

The house was across the street from my old boss (how that all came about is a story for another time), a guy I knew to be the neighborhood Mr. Fix-it. However, I didn't realize that the man was also obsessed with snow removal. Honestly, if there was a dusting, he would be outside, in full ski suit, scraping the asphalt clean.

The first time this happened, I stood in my living room and watched. He spent a full Sunday in his driveway, a beer resting in a snowbank, pushing the white back and forth as it continued to fall from overhead. Neighbors would come out here and there and do a quick shovel of their sidewalks. He'd chat them up, then they'd finish and go back inside, leaving him to continue his efforts. It was quite entertaining to observe.

The next storm came within a week or two. This time, I decided to give my boss' method a go. Once there was enough precipitation on the ground to move, I made my way outside, bundled from head to toe. Not surprisingly, he was already out, working away. We talked a bit as we cleared the snow. Before long, we each had a beer cooling in the ice. 

Neighbors began to come outside, folks I hadn't seen since the warmth of summer had vanished in late September twilights. They made paths from their front doors and down the sidewalks. Conversations began, and the work became this strange sort of social event. We all caught up on what had passed through our lives over the few months that we had been apart, not to mention how silly it was for neighbors to not keep in touch.

We all shoveled each other out. We dug out the houses of those we knew were away on vacation or stuck at work. Kids had snowball fights. More beers were passed around.

As the hours passed, I began to realize why my boss was always outside in these storms. It wasn't just the labor. It was the camaraderie that sparked through the neighborhood. It was the frosty cold beer with friends.

I was afraid that this sort of interaction would vanish here in Connecticut. Let's face it, people in this state are far too stuck in their own worlds. 

I was thankfully wrong. Sure, there weren't the conversations and bottles of beer that somehow get lost in the drifts, only to be discovered in the thaw of springtime, but there were plenty of "hello"s and "hell of a storm"s and "be careful"s. When it comes down to it, regardless of profession or tastes or conditions, if one is out shoveling, he or she is the same as everyone else.

It's a start.