| Sunny Side Up Jan 21, 2004 �2004, Kathleen Gibson Let it snow, let it snow Provided I don't have to travel far in the stuff, I like snow. So does the Preacher. A rousing snowstorm gets us talking, sort of. Co-operating, kind of. Remember that last big dumping? "How's your chest?" I say, as he bends over the black shovel. "Chest's fine. Just wish I didn't have to bend so low to get the stuff." "Right," I say. "Maybe no one's ever asked God to suspend it about knee height." Grunt. Later we really get chatty. "Kathleen, would 'ya go borrow that snow scoop?" Our neighbour's wide aluminum scoop is leaning against his garage. "Is he home?" "No." "Then you borrow it. You thought of it." He shrugs, trudges across the road and brings back the scoop. Then he says. "Do the sidewalk first, will 'ya?" I'm shoveling the whipped topping off the old Cougar in our driveway. "Nope. I von't borrow visout permission and I von't do sidevox." He looks at me funny. "Just kidding. I'll get it." I finish the car, start digging out the sidewalk. The snow scoop approaches from behind. Fast. Nearly pitches me into the snowbank. He's grinning. "Start at the other end, okay? You're standing in my ramp," Ramp? I peer through the fur on my hood. The man has made a neat path the width of the snow scoop, straight from the street onto our front yard. The road, minutes ago deeply rutted with tire-high snow tracks, now has a smooth spot from our drive well into its center, a few scoops wide. "Why are you shoveling the road?" He shrugs. "Need a clear spot to back into." Positively garrulous today, he is. Inside, we watch a snow blind grow over our kitchen window. First a sliver of white, peeks over the eaves trough's edge, like a woman's petticoat slipping below her skirt. As the storm continues, it slips further. It too, is grist for the marital conversation mill. "Come see it now," one of us says. The other lopes to the window. "Amazing. Straight out. Just look at those layers. No wonder they post warning signs at cliff edges. That's probably what they look like from underneath." I shudder. We've stood on cliff brinks numerous times, here and there. The Niagara Escarpment. B.C.s forests. Oregon's sand dunes. Even Prince Albert National Park has a cliff or two. We talk about those a bit. The snow extends a good four feet out from the roof before it starts to droop. Overnight it bends gracefully around the overhang and drapes halfway down the kitchen window. "It's still hangin' in there," is his greeting the next morning, when I yawn my way into the kitchen. Indeed, I can scarcely see out the window. I prepare to knock it down. He prepares to watch. "Careful, it's pretty heavy," he warns. The snow cascades over me. I stand still, like Lot's wife. Only colder. In the window, he's grinning again. Ah, there's nothing like a grand snowstorm to freshen a marriage. You can respond to this column at [email protected] |
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