That storm we had last month was some storm.
It reminded me of the storms we used to have, back when I first moved to Flagstaff twenty-five years ago. Back when it snowed on Labor Day (once), and Veteran’s Day (often). And yes, I know: everything was better back in “the old days.” But it really did use to snow more—just ask Al Gore. During this most recent blizzard (blizzard—how cool is that?) I ventured outside during the height of it, walking downtown at 2 am. It was incredible: the wind howled, the snow swirled, and I felt like the last person on earth—at least until another lone pedestrian swirled up in front of me, only to silently disappear again back into the darkness.
I ended up walking down the middle of the street, in part to reinforce my delightful post-apocalyptic fantasy, but also because, in the middle of the storm, none of the sidewalks were yet shoveled.
That was okay—mine weren’t either. Who shovels snow in the middle of the night? (Besides temporary city workers, of course. Bless every one of their hourly hearts.) The next day, however, was a different story.
The magic of the blizzard was gone. In its place were just these enormous piles of snow, and sunlight so bright it hurt your eyes. I felt like I had had a one-night-stand with Ol’ Man Winter, and awoke in the morning to nothing but empty bottles and regrets. And shoveling.
Or at least, that’s what I woke up to. And my neighbors. What you woke up to, I’m not so sure.
Yeah, I’m talking to you. The one who didn’t greet the morning after with a shovel in your hand. Or if you did, you only wielded it long enough to shovel out a path to the four-wheel drive Ford Valdez you keep parked in your driveway.
Look, I’m happy for you. Really. Words can’t express how happy I am that you finally got a chance to put that behemoth into four-wheel drive, even if it was only long enough to make it up and over the berm the snowplow left in front of your driveway. But here’s the thing: you still have to shovel your sidewalk. All of it. Every last bit. Even the parts that you, personally, don’t walk on. (This means that you can’t just shovel a path from your front door to your mail box and garage.)
You do this not because it’s the law (although it is), and not because it’s a great cardio workout (ditto), but because it’s the right thing to do. It’s the neighborly thing to do. And you do it because, if you don’t, and you happen to live on one of the streets that my kids need to walk down to get to school, I’m going to kill you.
I really don’t know how to make it any simpler than that. When you don’t shovel your sidewalks, my kids are forced to walk in the street to get to school. And, I don’t know if you realize this, but my kids are idiots. The fact that they are surrounded by two-ton vehicles being piloted across ice-slicked roads by people who are forwarding funny porn shots on their iPhones does not even cross their tiny little minds as they push and shove each other in front of oncoming traffic. They are idiots. They are children.
But they are mine. And I happen to like them. A lot.
So, shovel your damn sidewalk. And when the snowplow finally comes by and plows your street, piling all of the snow back on top of your nicely shoveled walk, shovel it again.
And again.
Because it’s the neighborly thing to do. And it’s the law. And, oh yeah: if you don’t, some crazy, irate mother just might kill you. (That would be me.)