Snail

Living in the upper plains prepares one for weather diversity and adversity. On the fifth anniversary of one of the worst ice storms recorded for our city, we received an arctic punch that had even the hardiest of folks mumbling and grumbling. It started with thunder and lightning. A crack of lightning in our neighborhood struck a pole nearby, causing electricity issues for some. Then the heavens opened with a rain and ice mix. Not exactly snow. Not exactly hail. We will call it snail.

The snail continued on and off for hours, causing a pebbly-like build up on the streets. Add large vehicles driving over said surface. Sprinkle on more snail. Turn on sixty-mile-an-hour wind gusts. Warm it up just enough to partially melt the snail. Keep the snail going through the night so sleep is impossible with the ping-pinging on the windows. Change the snail to full on snow until twelve inches is received. Whip the wind into a frenzy so tree branches are waving good bye. Coat everything with more snow icing. Shut down the interestate highways in two directions. And voila, you have yourself a spring storm, Dakota style.

After two days of being pummeled by the weather, a peek out the window revealed the aftermath. Snow gathered in heaps wherever there was an obstacle in its path. Small branches awaited gathering up. Snow on the streets threatened to swallow up unprepared vehicles. Little rabbit tracks made their way to bushes, indicating the chance for small critters to nibble on the tops of vegetation, rather than the understory. The chug-chug of snow blowers geared up with earnest battle cries, fully determined to shave down the mountains of white stuff.

My long-suffering husband takes care of our driveway and the neighbor's larger corner lot and driveway. Sitting on my ample behind, watching him chip away at operation snow removal seemed beyond lazy, even for me. So I picked up a shovel (the smallest one, I am weak) and hacked away on our deck. To be completely honest, I was probably more concerned about the birds than my husband. We had packed up the feeders before the storm for fear of losing them to the wind and ice. During the storm, I watched the little juncos and sparrows flit about looking for any tidbit left behind. It was like my trip to the store in the wee hours of day two of the storm. The shelves were barren. Time to live off the land and whatever was left in my fridge and freezer. My vision of chicken soup quickly morphed into a pot of beef stew instead. The milk was parsed out sparingly. And the oranges rolling around in my crisper drawer held off scurvy. We lived to see another day.

It is said that you never have to shovel sunshine (smugly stated by those living in warmer climes). I would add that shovels are tools reserved for optimistic realists. We know that April snail brings May flowers. Maybe.