winter – Hey, Look! A Writer Fellow!

Every year I convince myself that I like winter a little more than I actually do.

Don’t get me wrong; I like winter a lot. It’s the season I don’t sweat. Oh, how I hate to sweat. And I’m pretty sure I sweat more than most people.

Winter is also the season I don’t cut the lawn. Oh, how I hate to cut the lawn, for it is the sweatiest chore ever invented by anyone ever. And sweating while mowing is beyond awful. By the time I finish cutting and bagging my grass on a hot summer day, a shag carpet’s worth of clippings are spot-welded to every inch of my sweaty, sweaty self. The only thing worse that being sweaty is being sweaty and filthy.

On mowing days that are particularly sweaty and filthy, I attempt to convince Ellen that we should replace our lawn with a yard full with gravel. “Like they do at beach houses!” I say with all the false enthusiasm I can muster. “We can pretend we live near the ocean! Wouldn’t that be fun?”

“No,” she replies. “Now go shower. You’re sweaty and filthy.”

The arrival of winter also means I no longer need to be on-call for spider-killing duty. During the warmer months this is pretty much my full time job.

I find that spiders prefer to reveal themselves three seconds after I sit down to read. It’s quite remarkable, really. In tandem with the cracking of a book spine I hear an anguished “MICHAEL!” or “DAAAAAD!” from a far off corner of the house.

“COMING!” I shout back, for I am nothing if not a dutiful husband and father. “Just let me finish this paragraph!”

BUT IT’S MOOOOOVING!”

So much for the paragraph. I grab a Squishing Tissue and the Assassination Stepstool (the offending spider is almost always on the ceiling) and get to work.

In the days before I was married, my relationship with spiders was not nearly as antagonistic. I lived by one simple rule: If I needed a stepstool to kill them, they wouldn’t get killed. It was a fair arrangement; I stayed on the floor, spiders stayed on the ceiling, and we both had the exact same amount of square footage on which to live. It was a kind of utopia, really.

Ellen’s spider philosophy is different: The Only Good Spider Is A Dead Spider. Ellen is my partner and soulmate, so I kill. Please don’t judge me. I’m just following orders.

Winter doesn’t just keep me away from much-hated chores; the season also has a lot to offer. I like snow. A lot. I even like to shovel it; the act of shoveling places me in a serene meditative state that gets my creative juices flowing. Many of my best story ideas germinate as I clear my driveway.

I’m more alert in cold weather. I laugh easier. My bed is comfier. Long showers are more satisfying. You can make an entire dinner out of nothing but soup and bread. And, thanks to my mother-in-law, the house is stocked with enough gingerbread to last until April.

Unfortunately, there is a big downside to winter that I try my best to forget:

No one wants to come near me.

Winter is the time of year I attract static electricity. Oh, how I hate static electricity. And I’m pretty sure I attract more static electricity than most people. The simple act of getting out of a chair churns up enough energy in my body to power a small African village. Everything I touch sends sparks flying and pain shooting up my fingers and arms.

I deliver pain as often as I receive it. Last week I touched my son on the shoulder and he collapsed to the floor as if he was Luke Skywalker getting worked over by Emperor Palpatine.

My son has a flair for the dramatic, yes. But he has since made a concerted effort to stay out of my reach.

Ellen can also count herself as a victim. This morning as she got ready to leave for work I leaned in for a kiss. My electrified lips sent us both lurching backwards in pain.

“DAMMIT!” she exclaimed. Not exactly a sweet nothing, but justified under the circumstances.

“Um. Sorry. I love you!”

“I love you, too,” she grumbled as she headed out the door.

Then she gave me a peculiar sideways glance. Maybe I read her expression wrong, but I think she has decided to treat me like a leper until March.

It is a depressing thought. To soothe my emotional pain, I will drown my sorrows in gingerbread. As I do so, I will contemplate the unthinkable: maybe lawn cutting and spider killing isn’t as bad as I once thought.

I used to live next door to a guy who owned a snowblower the size of a French automobile. His name was Russ and he thought I was an idiot.

“Woo! Look at all the snow,” he announced to the world at large as he stepped out onto his side porch. The neighborhood was empty, save for me wielding my blue plastic shovel. Russ figured I was a better audience than nobody.

“Mike. Mike. Mike. What do you think? Ten inches? Twelve?”

“Seven, maybe,” I replied as I paced back and forth pushing my shovel. Talking about the weather was no reason to pause in my work — especially if the person I was talking to was Russ.

“Seven? No! Ten. Probably 12 or 13,” he corrected me. “Hey. Once I’m done with my snowblower, you can use it.”

I kept shoveling. “No, thanks.”

“Really?! You’re gonna break your back doing…that…when my snowblower could do your whole driveway in five minutes?”

“I like to shovel.”

Russ snorted. “Suit yourself,” he said. The tone of his “suit yourself” could only be interpreted one way: “Suit yourself, you idiot.”

Then Russ went back inside his house. He still had to throw on a light jacket to prepare for his snowblowing adventure. Sure it was 20 degrees, but there’s no need to bundle up for a job that takes only five minutes.

Although I would never have accepted anything from Russ, I was being honest with him. I enjoy shoveling. It’s quiet. Nothing is better at deadening noise than a fresh blanket of snow and, when I am out there, I hear little more than my shovel scraping along the asphalt. I’ve grown to find the sound lovely — not because it is an intrinsically appealing sound, but because I associate it with an appealing state of mind.

I also refuse the offers of well-meaning neighbors wielding leafblowers. Raking works for me in very much the same way shoveling does. Both tasks require a certain degree of focus but are freeing enough to let your mind wander or, in my case, go pleasantly, refreshingly blank.

That quiet mind, I’ve discovered, is often the lull before a creative storm; when I finish shoveling and get back to work, I am rarely more productive. My brain is rested and ready to go, my ideas flow with little effort, and my happiness is total.

On this particular snow shoveling day, however, my mind couldn’t get as blank as I would’ve liked. I was still delighted, however. For there, woefully underdressed and cursing under his breath, was Russ failing to get his snowblower started.

I couldn’t help myself.

“Want to borrow my shovel?”

“No!” Russ spat as he gave the cord its 20^th white knuckled pull.

I wanted to say “suit yourself,” but I couldn’t do it. It is such a smug and jerky phrase, isn’t it? Regardless, I entered my house with a happy heart. I had just shoveled seven or maybe 13 inches of snow. I felt useful, rested, and vaguely fit. Better yet, I could see a pot of coffee and an afternoon of inspired writing in my immediate future.

Tag: winter

Winter Woe

A Tale of Two Driveways