Another Vermont Snowstorm

So… last Friday, it snowed… a lot… maybe 10 inches. And as usual, I left the details of snow removal to the last minute. 

After more than 30 years living in Vermont, you’d think I’d learn. You’d think I’d be prepared. You’d think I’d buy the proper equipment and call the right people. But this happens every year. There is a specific thought process that goes into being so unprepared for something that happens annually - much of it has to do with denial and procrastination. 

It goes something like this. 

“It won’t snow that much due to climate change. There isn’t as much snow this year.” (False)

“The driveway is small. It’s only about 100 feet long, with a dogleg to the right for car parking.” (True)

“I can shovel the driveway myself. It cannot possibly snow so much, so fast as to outpace my shoveling abilities.” (False)

“I can hire someone to help. A teenager, someone with a snowblower.” (True, but I don’t)

“I can buy a snowblower for myself.” (True, but I won’t) 

In addition to all these excuses there are Vermont cultural issues that come into play. First, I don’t have a driveway. Driveways live in New Jersey. I have a dooryard. Like a driveway, a dooryard is a place where you park your car. But it is also a place to stack your firewood, lay out your snow shovels, stash your garbage cans, plant a small garden and walk to and from the barn, where you store more of your snow shovels, firewood and garbage cans. 

But the biggest part of Vermont culture that keeps me from taking the easy way out runs deeper than the nomenclature around dooryards and driveways. It’s the foolhardy belief that I can do this myself; that I am a man of the wilderness; that this year, despite the proof of years past, this year will be different. This year I will beat back the snow and emerge victorious. 

By Friday evening I had shoveled the driveway three times. I was looking and feeling good - ahead of the curve, ahead of the snow. Winning. I had proved that I didn’t need to hire anyone. I could do this myself. I don’t need help. I am strong and the blade of my shovel is wide. The thought of buying a snowblower was out of the question. They are for the weak - people from New Jersey (Like me).

So I went to bed, secure in my victory, warm from the wood stove and satisfied that I had shoveled my own driveway… dooryard.

And then morning came. 

During the night, the snow from our metal roof slipped ever so slightly and came crashing to the ground. By 6 AM another full snowstorm had come. More than 10 inches. This time the snow was heavier and harder to shovel, especially with warmer tempuratures. And just like that, the thrill of victory became the agony of defeat. And with that defeat came despair. 

My only option was to bear the shame of calling plow guys at random. In Vermont, it is incredibly dumb to start calling plow guys during a massive snowstorm when 100,000 people have already lost their power. It is as dumb as leaving your firewood delivery to January. (I’ve done that as well)

With my phone silent, I was left with no options, only failure. With nothing left to do I resolved to at least walk up my road and survey the beauty of my victorious enemy. But as I summited the hill above my house I saw it. My neighbor, sitting atop her spanking new Kubota tractor, plowing her dooryard. It is a beautiful thing, this tractor; small enough to clear dooryards, big enough to move tons of snow fast. It has a really cool plow on the front and chains on the back tires. I stood in awe. 

She had a smile on her face. She was playing in the snow. 

“Wanna land an airplane here?’’ she asked, pointing to her perfectly plowed dooryard.

Do I tell her? Do I show my weakness? 

“I’ve been doing a lot of shoveling and I can’t keep up,’’ I admitted.

“Want me to plow it for you?’’ she offered.

“I would love that,’’ I said, defeated. 

Down she came.

“I just love playing like this,’’ she said. 

And just like that it was over. The snow was pushed off to the side, leaving a lovely smooth surface with enough room for two cars. She even plowed out the mailbox for the mail carrier, a master at work.

And then she was gone, with a promise to return anytime. No charge. The debt goes on a kind of Vermont tab that we all keep around here. She knows I’ll be there for her if something goes wrong. In summer, I mow a path from her house to a field so she and her partner can go on walks. No charge. We check in on each other. Not too much but just enough to take care. 

That’s the way it goes when it works in Vermont. And for the most part, it works just fine.