A Difference of Opinion Regarding
How To Shovel Snow

One thing that you can be sure of if you live in Vermont is that you develop your own snow shoveling techniques.

One popular method is the "close enough" style. This consists of making paths barely the width of the shovel leading to the side door, the oil tank, and around the car. Anything more than that is left to the snowplow.

The other method, which I will call the "psychotic perfectionist" style, encompasses paths on which two can walk abreast to any door, the deck is clear in case you need to picnic, the asphalt around the car is showing for two feet, and the oil tank level can be read from five feet away. The snowplow still comes, but if it fails to perfect the edges of the drive, the "psychotic perfectionist" will even it out.

Russ and I have two different styles of shoveling. I adhere to the "close enough" style, and this has not met with approval in the 20-plus years that we have lived in Vermont.

When the children were at home they were instructed in the correct way to clear the drive, during the early days before we had someone plow.

"Why pay for plowing? We’ve got three strong kids to shovel," Russ reasoned.

So every snowfall as a family, we shoveled and shoveled and shoveled. For the most part they didn’t complain about the job itself, but what they couldn’t understand was the "psychotic perfectionist" bit.

"But Dad, no oil man is that large! A shovel-wide path should be enough."

"We want to make his job easier," he’d reply.

We also collectively balked at Russ’s idea that it was much easier to move two inches of snow every few hours than to wait and move ten at once. Somehow, being hustled outside five times in one day dampened everyone’s enthusiasm for winter storms.

"Dad, how about if we move four inches at a time?" they’d chorus. "I’m telling you this is easier," came the response.

If we mutinied and refused to go out, he would sigh and labor on alone. The guilt ploy always worked and soon we were all alongside him moving snow.

Fast forward to this winter and its bountiful offerings of snow. It has been years since the kids have lived at home.

The driveway is diligently plowed, but the paths to the doors, the deck, the oil tank, and around the cars is left to Russ’s discretion. He has an old snowblower that helps with the paths, but we still end up moving a lot of snow from the deck and drive. Russ does the bulk of it, but I insist on helping.

"We can’t lose the driveway," he exclaimed the other day after six more inches had fallen.

"What does it matter at this point?" I asked. "We can get in the cars, and this snow is heavy." I had just moved those six inches from the side of the car.

"But if you scrape again, you get back down to the asphalt. We’ll be on pavement."

"I don’t care about seeing pavement. I’m seeing spots. I think it’s good enough."

"No, it’ll freeze. We have to keep going."

I started grumbling and mumbling, "This is crazy. Psychotic. Why? This is good enough." Russ overheard me.

He came up and put his arm across my shoulders and said soothingly, "Listen. You seem to be losing your attitude. Why don’t you go inside and I’ll finish." But I was not in the frame of mind to be soothed.

"I’m NOT losing my attitude," I retorted. "I’ve got one, all right. It just doesn’t happen to be a very good one."

I glared at him, and he answered with a smile. As always, he got me to laugh. Then we finished shoveling the drive the good old "psychotic perfectionist" way.

And I have to admit it—it’s nice to see asphalt again.