Little darling, the smiles returning to the faces

Dancing in the snow

I had lunch with a friend the other day and I was grousing about how bad this winter had been how much snow and ice we had to deal with and blah, blah, blah ad-infinitum. He looked at me and said “I don’t think it’s been that bad.” Now bear in mind that this is from a guy who spends his days roaming all over Northeast Pa selling his product in rain sleet snow and hail.

I got to thinking about it as I drove home in the five to seven inches of slop that we were getting that day. Maybe he was right. Maybe it was my imagination that this winter has sucked far worse than normal.

I began to tally up the damage in my mind while in a four wheel skid heading for the drifts on the side of the road. First on my mind was the crack in my windshield. I have now replaced this piece of glass twice in this car. Why? Because anti skid kicked off the road hit it and sprouted a star chip. And on the way to get it fixed I had to run the defroster because it was snowing and that is what cracks the windshield, or so the glass guys tell me.

They are all driving Mercedes Benz’s.

Then I stopped by the hardware store to pick up more sand. We spread the stuff on the driveway and the walkways for traction. It’s cheaper and believe it or not cleaner than that stuff that is supposed to melt ice and snow. This trip I picked up four fifty pound bags of the stuff. Over the course of this winter I have purchased close to a ton. This spring we will have our own beach!

As I did an unintended 360 in the parking lot I thought about my fuel bill. Since December we have filled the twin tanks in our basement twice with number two fuel oil. The guy who brings this liquid black gold was telling me about his new boat as I wrote out the last check. Fifty foot cabin cruiser he said.

As I drove up my driveway that day the guy who plows for me was just finishing up. I paid him and he remarked that he hoped it didn’t snow next week. “Why?” I asked. “Heading for Jamaica!” was his reply as he tucked the bills into his bulging wallet.

I slipped and slid my way down to the mailbox. It was leaning like that famous tower in Italy. The last pass by the big county plow has ripped the number plate clean off. Maybe we will find it next spring.

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About James Rising

A recovering radio addict wrestles with the written word.
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