Column: Tales from Exit 22, by Al Batt

I live where the streets are paved with snow and ice.

The snowplow, attempting to sweep out the corners, had become stuck in the middle of the road running past our home.

There is little point to moving snow in a driveway until the plow goes by and this one wasn’t coming soon.

I’ve learned that the hard way. More times than I could count, I’ve cleared a drive, only to have the plow go by and fill the end of the drive with hard snow. It’s a game of futility.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m happy to see the snowplow drive by. Some days, the driver is my best friend.

Aristotle said, “We are what we repeatedly do. Excellence, then, is not an act, but a habit.”

If Aristotle was right, I should excel at shoveling snow.

My driveway has been stubborn this year, insisting that it be filled with snow.

If it’s cleaned, winter protests with temperatures plummeting well below zero.

My garage door opener added its objection. I don’t blame it. I was a garage door opener for many years. I don’t mean to whine, but I’m a husband and that’s our specialty, as I know that many people have no garage or car. Winter can be bleak, but my winter doesn’t exceed yours.

My garage door has a sensor that blinks madly if something is in the path of the door. This prevents the heavy door from closing and crushing the neighbor’s traveling cat that loves playing the game. Up and almost down went the door. In and out went the cat, thanks to my prompting in one direction. This created a playoff atmosphere. The cat enjoys having dirty feet and using its paws to ski down my windshield. Years ago, I read a University of Arizona study that found that men speak 15,669 words per day (women use 16,215 words per diem). I used up half my daily allotment getting the cat to vacate the garage.

When the temperature falls far below zero, the garage door opens happily, without complaint. But it refuses to close. The sensor doesn’t blink in protest and the cat had moved on to a more welcoming garage. The opener either dislikes a clear driveway or frigid temperatures.

It gets over it. When the temperature warms to above zero, the door is willing to close again.

My garage is unheated. That has nothing to do with anything, but I like how it makes it sound as if I’m suffering.

As to the garage door opener malfunction, it shall remain a mystery.

I shouldn’t live here unless I’m prepared to put up with things like this every year.

It was -17 at my home. A friend living in Haines, Alaska informed me that he was basking in 41 degrees above zero. I don’t mind winter. Every pastor has his parish. Winter comes to us all and there’s no refund offered.

I shoveled. I needed to get out for work the next day. Plus, I was to accompany my wife to a store. It was one of those “we’ve got it if we can find it” stores. We were buying a gift. A dandy toilet plunger, a deluxe model. The next time they get married, they will be more careful as to where they register for gifts. I wished that one of the family’s teenagers had been available to come with us. His or her mortification while on a shopping trip for a toilet plunger would have been precious.

Winter makes us weird.

When I was a kid, I walked four miles to school every day. Man, did I feel stupid when I found out there was a bus.

A neighbor said the cold had caused her husband to do nothing but stare through the window. She added that if it got any colder, she might let him in.

Some consider winter ugsome. They run out of adjectives to describe it. They find a season chockablock with nasty weather forecasts vexatious to the spirit.

The Bible tells us to pray for our enemies. If you don’t care for winter, try praying for it.

No winter day fits everyone’s description.

Winter is never ideal, even to its most loyal fans.

We shouldn’t be quick to criticize. We all fall short of being ideal. I hope to shout.

I shovel snow. It gives me pride of ownership in the season.

On a cold, clear night, I looked up at the stars in the sky.

I knew that there were things far greater than winter.

 

Hartland resident Al Batt’s columns appear every Wednesday and Sunday.