Clunk. Bang. Screech. Grind. “Tis the season of “snow removal sounds,” music to my ears as I sleep snug as a bug in my warm bed, wondering if the person driving the plow is dressed warmly and has had at least one cup of java to fuel his/her body. Do women drive the plows I wonder?
These are a few of my favorite things, winter-wise. Remembering dad clearing out the clinkers and making a fresh bed for our coal-fire furnace, and then recalling when we converted to oil, the sound of coal rushing down our chute and into the coal bin near the furnace, went away.
Clunk. Bang. Help is on the way just up the street. I know this because I can see flashes of light from the snow removal truck. I rise, reluctantly, as it is only 4 a.m. But if the plows are out and working, then shouldn’t I rise and shine? Can’t even feed the birds this a.m. as the screen door to the feeding station is frozen shut. A little junco flits by. I snap on the light switch and illuminate my side entrance. A huge drift greets me, but I am able to clear a space around the furnace extruder pipe on the north exterior wall.
Across the street from my house, a “White Mountain” has risen. It grows by leaps and bounds over hard winters. It’s what the plow persons move from one place to another. Clunk. Bang. Here comes the plow one more time. Should I step outside and maybe shovel a bit? Nah. Not to shovel, but to inhale the crisp air. It’s 6:30 a.m. and a resident south of me is pulling out of his driveway. Bound for where at this hour?
Start the coffee. Check the email. Tune in television for an update. Goliath has met his David, and we are He.
Good thing I prepared for this by taking down all of the exterior Christmas stuff. No sense in struggling through mountains of heavy wet snow to rescue a wreath or two. A light goes on in the living room of the neighbor across the way. Washington County is digging out. Be careful what you wish for. Wasn’t it just last week I was complaining we had no snow?
My forced air gas furnace kicks in. Click. Clunk goes the plow as it makes yet another pass. Pity those who have to rev up a snow blower or tote a shovel or walk the dog.
The howling winds have ceased. Remember folks, Goliath was slain by David who toted a slingshot. Personally, I think Goliath was slain by a snow plow.
Bang. Clunk. Screech.
Photo courtesy allposters.com