Moving in together called upon my (future) husband and I to acclimate to each other's quirks. For instance I remember McKibbin being a bit gob-smacked when faced with my compulsive habit of shoveling snow.
I’m usually the first one on the block to have our sidewalk cleared. I’m compelled by an overzealous sense of civic duty to make sure pedestrians and mail carriers don’t have to muck through the snow to get past my house.
Even with thirty inches of snowfall last December our sidewalk was scooped several times a day when necessary and the driveway remained usable. But the forecast calls for more snow this week. Snowmelt from the last two bouts has been negligible. Which brought me, at the ripe old age of thirty-six, to a point of desperation I hadn’t hit before. I gritted my teeth and hired a contractor. Not to shovel. Just to move around the snow I’ve stacked up, like a fortress, outside my house.
With his Bobcat and snow plow he spent forty minutes moving the wintry stuff around. My skin winced even under the layered up mittens and scarves as I popped outside to survey his work and cut him a check. The relief of feeling ready for this next blast of snow made this, quite possibly, the smartest thirty bucks I’ve spent.
I hope you find a nice warm place to sit out the storm. Or, at the very least, that you have some place left to pile the snow.
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