Big snowfall tonight.
Maybe two thirds the way up the ruler.
Standard ruler... 30 cm jobbie. Like in school.
OK. Mathematics starting.
Mathematics in the sense of one of Mr. Hensey's classes (fifth year honours) ... I am hanging out with my friends talking about the weekend, but I am also supposed to be doing maths.
The driveway is 100 metres long and four metres wide.
A little wider at either end.
The snow shovel is 45 cm wide.
I think.
Why am I writing a math post? This is not good.
Side to side. From lawn to woodland.
Over and back.
Over and back.
Pick up the spill.
Then over and back.
By my calculations (which are usually wrong and need John Brown to fix), that's 222 shovel swipes across the driveway.
Over and back.
And then scooping up spill.
Say, another 150.
That's 372 shovel swipes.
I'm pretty sure it was more than that.
Put the shovel into the snow with the blade aligned to the edge of what's left, and push along the line to the far side. Turn on your heel, and clean up the spill on the way back.
Then put the shovel back down against the clean line of the snow.
Scraaaape.
In early November snows it's mostly rain with some ice in it, so when you shovel it's like pushing water up a hill.
Heavy and wet and no fun at all.
After January, it's all ice pellets and misery. The shovel stops up on the ice and pushes into your sternum and it's hard and miserable to move it.
After I finished doing it seven times last year I found out all the men on my road used to watch me shovel ice off the driveway, and wonder at how Himself got himself such a hardcore woman...
But there's a couple of weeks in December when it's light and fluffy and perfect if it snows.
And shovelling is a meditation.
That was tonight.
I think about a lot of stuff when I shovel the driveway in December.
I feel so lucky that I get to do it. I need to think about a lot of stuff.
Today I was thinking about Ireland, because I was very lucky this Sunday; people from Ireland were all home suffering from pre-Christmas hangovers, so they were vulnerable and I got to talk to a few of them for quite the chat.
Well, I have to admit that during the section of the driveway from the road to the garbage box (about 20 side to sides), I thought about how difficult it is to build and maintain a mature and loving relationship with stepchildren who are the powerless pawns in a ridiculous battle of control freakery being waged by their mother against their father and me.
But I think about that a lot and if I write about it she uses it in court proceedings, so we'll just move on, shall we.
From the garbage box to the rhododendron bush, which is not very far, the rhododendron bush being near the garbage box for a reason, I thought about Ireland.
The lights on Grafton St.
Winking against the wet paving.
The weekend that was.
What a weekend that must have been. Everyone finally had time to go out and chew down on a few things.
I'm sorry I missed that weekend.
I would like to fly home for that weekend and then leave before Christmas. Would that be so awful?
How well everyone is doing!
Everyone I love has survived.
The recession. The revelations. The floods. The everything.
For my New Year's wish, I would like everyone I know in Ireland to be in charge of Ireland now.
It's the fact that you're not that's making your teeth ache boys and girls.
The demography is on your side, guys...
I was halfway up the section from the rhodo bush to the back of the car (the long, difficult, middle section), when I had to put the shovel down and go get the dog.
Neighbours again, not approving of the dog being allowed to wander about in what is ostensibly a wilderness backyard area...
She's half wolf for fuck's sake... what do you think she's going to do in the snow.
I got feedback on the blog tonight and was told the dog bits were boring, which I knew, but dog bits = life right now, so maybe up the ante in the life is a priority for soon.
After Christmas, as Himself would say.
Anyways, got the dog, got back in the rhythm, over and back, over and back, pick up the spills, over and back, when I noticed it was blowing snow, like it said in the warning.
Your late thirties and early forties are all about 'blowing snow' aren't they.
You shovel and shovel and shovel.
And then you get up the next morning and all the snow is drifted up against the car again.
There you go, metaphor for next year.
I'm going to post this without a resolution because I am drunk and blind (dog ate my glasses)..
I will amend if something comes to me.
Oh yeah.... make Christmas about the kids for once eh?!
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