Battle

Shoveling snow is an art form in the upper plains. Our equipment and techniques are based on years of battling the elements. We have learned how to read the consistency of the snowfall and choose our weapon(s) and strategy accordingly. A soft fluffy snow may only need a quick shoveling with basic equipment. Wet, pre-cement snow will need heavy duty shovels and a course of action designed to save fragile back muscles. A snow plow's windrow in the driveway can mean another skirmish with the white stuff, cussing optional.  

Our neighborhood represents many of the game plans used in snow removal. Ready Randy is usually the first one out of the gate, ready to tackle the latest snow project. His garage door will slowly open and he will appear dressed for battle with his armor and weapon of choice. He is responsible for his driveway and a small section of sidewalk. He takes this task seriously and wants it done well and soon. Steady Stan is a bit more calculating. He usually waits until he is sure the last flake has descended. His large corner lot means he has quite a bit of snow to tackle. Often, that calls for a machine, the snowblower. Stan has a heavy duty blower so he is able to methodically and decisively take care of his property. 

Nancy and Ned Newlywed are still finding their way in property caretaking. The first snowfall caught them with barely a shovel, a car left in the driveway (another place to collect drifts) and recreational outerwear. Subsequent snowfalls have resulted in a couple of shovels, an unobstructed driveway and boots with tread. Serious Stu is a veteran snow mover and is ready for anything with his big gun, the riding snowblower. He is able to make quick work of his corner lot and he occasionally is gracious enough to take care of our sidewalk as well. Loosey-Goosey Larry has more of a git-er-done strategy as he is known to clear his corner lot with just a shovel and his attire is a pair of shorts, no hat and some klompy boot situation. 

My husband and I often take a divide and conquer approach. Our baby lot does not have a lot of snow coverage but we are also responsible for our neighbor's large corner lot (they compensate us adequately so no need to feel sorry for us, most days). My husband loves his snowblower and likes to wait until everything "settles down" before making a game plan. I am a little more jumpy and anxious to get the neighbor's driveway finished. I do not run the snowblower so I am only useful if the snow is a reasonable depth and it is not too moisture laden. I also do not own coveralls so if the windchill is below zero I am inept. In other words, I am a Goldilocks snow mover.  

Our latest snowfall was of the light and fluffy variety but it came with a sneak attack. I had completed the shoveling on the neighbor's driveway and sidewalks when my husband said that it looked like we might get another shot of snow. Grrr. He wisely waited and sure enough, another dump happened just as night was beginning to fall which is early this time of year. My husband owns headlamps and his snowblower is equipped with lights but I do not shovel in the dark unless it is an emergency. We decided the snow would still be there in the morning and we would join Ready Russ in another round of shoveling. 

All in a day's work. 

                                                                    

Shot

The ugly words of recent months such as "unprecedented", "mandate", "quarantine", "community spread", "asymptomatic" and the creepiest one of all "C-19" (I refuse to use its full name) are ever so slowly being eclipsed by the phrase "light at the end of the tunnel." That light is none other than a stick in the arm, a.k.a. vaccination. There is much ado concerning the process of dispensing the vaccine but I suspect that will work itself out as time marches along. Our community is currently working through level 1C. The really good news is that willing participants in senior centers have received their first round of the vaccine. My mother with dementia has been on lockdown in an assisted living facility since last March. A blessing of her dementia riddled mind is that she doesn't fully comprehend the gravity of the pandemic but she knows she is unable to see her children and grandchildren as freely as before. 

When I talked with her about receiving the new vaccine, she said, "I will give them my arm or my butt or whatever they want if it means I can get vaccinated." She didn't need to read the literature provided or watch the videos from health officials to understand the power of vaccines. In her 92 years she has seen enough death and suffering from diseases such as polio and tuberculosis to know that vaccines change lives.

My childhood included its share of diseases no longer prevalent at this time. Measles and mumps were still common and unpleasant, not to mention potentially deadly. We all experienced chicken pox and many of us had it at the same time due to its contagious nature. My mother told us not to scratch so much or we could develop long-term scarring. Easier said than done! We slathered ourselves full of calamine lotion in an attempt to mitigate the situation. I think we only succeeded in making ourselves look like a pack of pink panthers. My mother was a saint to deal with all our whining and discomfort. 

My parents never questioned vaccines even when many of them were in nascent stages of development. I remember an incident where I was told to eat a sugar cube laced with a pinkish liquid, no questions asked. It was the first oral polio vaccine being made available en masse. As kids, we were aware of the horror of "iron lungs" and children crippled for life. We gobbled down the sugar cube with all its fringe benefits. We were also on the tail end of the need for a smallpox vaccine. The nasty scab it produced left a scar many of us still sport today. 

The day my mother received her first C-19 vaccine was a day of rejoicing for me. When I asked her if she remembered getting her shot she quite naturally did not remember but she said, "Let me check for a band-aid on my arm. Yep, I've got a band-aid." Bingo! Round one in the books.

My subgroup for receiving the vaccine is last on the list so I will be queuing up with college kids when the time comes. I will be there with rings on my fingers and bells on my toes. And I won't even ask for a sugar cube chaser. 

Comfort

My husband and I often watch reruns of MASH while we enjoy our evening meal. It is true, we are on a slippery slope toward being a TV tray couple. Be that as it may, we rarely tire of the antics of the 4077 gang and it always seems better with dinner and dessert.

Recently, during a commercial break, I made the comment, "I think I should get a comfort monkey."

Silence.

More silence.

My husband finally looked at me and asked, "What are you talking about?" I could see in his eyes that he was hoping the drug commercials would soon be over so we could return to the show rather than explore the current non sequitur conversation. 

Not willing to be stopped, I clarified my comment. "I feel I am going to suffer from a form of PTSD if and when we get through this C-19 stuff and I may need some kind of animal to keep me company when I go out and about. It would be like those folks who have little dogs or iguanas or some type of animal to calm them down." 

More silence.

Finally, my husband, a man of precise and carefully chosen words, said, "I feel like an animal would cause you more stress."

Wiser words were never spoken. 

The truth of the matter is I have a complicated relationship with most animals, despite my upbringing on a farm. I am terrified of dogs. Chickens have a psychotic dark side. Cattle are best viewed behind fences. Mice make me shudder. Raccoons are shifty. Monkeys have scary hands. Pigs have grunty appetites. And opossums, don't get me started.

I like cats, perhaps due to their aloofness and independent nature. Birds always make me smile, albeit an ostrich might give me pause. Bugs, spiders and snakes are neutral for me, unless venom or constriction is involved. 

Clearly, my list of acceptable animals would likely not make very good in-public-comfort animals as most of them have issues with social skills. And my husband is correct in that any animal would give me stress as I am not one who enjoys the care and maintenance of indoor litter boxes, cages, and food bowls. I will have to adopt different ways to cope with the aftermath of the past year.  

2020 was a devil of a year and its ramifications are not over yet. Without a doubt many of us will be in need of comfort as we continue to move forward in 2021. I will not be using a comfort monkey but I plan on using my tried and true techniques.

For starters, a stack of library books gives me joy. The fermentation projects fizzing away on my counter give my gut microbiotica a happy treat. A bubbling pot of soup can calm the edgiest of days. Phone calls with friends and family help shift perspectives when gray clouds gather. A DVD workout reminds me to keep active, albeit begrudgingly. And there is nothing like another episode of MASH to point out that problems are a part of living.

Cheers to a New Year! May you find what comforts you.   

A Christmas gift from my husband
included, Sven, a comfort reindeer.