I don’t mind shoveling snow. Perhaps because I don’t really have to do it all that often. People think of Wyoming with snowy mountains, which is accurate. But our town is between two mountain ranges, part sagebrush plain, part wind-carved hollow. We’re a high-altitude desert with only 8-10 inches of precipitation a year. Compared to, say, New Orleans, which might get 8 inches of precipitation in a single storm.
So, when it snows, we don’t get a whole lot and it’s seldom very wet. I don’t mind shoveling it.
I didn’t shovel at all yesterday. I just let the snow fall, piling up in heaves and pillows. Even when it cleared a bit in the afternoon and the neighbors all headed out to clear the walks, I stayed in my armchairl, papers all around me. With dusk, the snowfall resumed and by this morning all their little tunnels were filled again, fluffy and smooth.
But I did shovel this morning, after the rec center. Sunday is over, so the snow can no longer rest. It must be cleared away so business can resume. People trudge by in their Monday morning boots.
I stay inside and watch them go.