Mike Ritchey
Mike Ritchey

Man! How about all this snow? Oh, sure, I know. In this same issue, Dr. Bartleson, our go-to guy for all things related to statistics and damned statistics, will let us know that, “Hey, you think this is snow? Hah! This is nothing. Why, back in the ’90s — the eighteen nineties — it never stopped snowing!” But it’ll do for me, the snow we’ve had lately. And the shoveling? I mean, I’m over it already.

But there has been a definite upside to all this misery: my neighbors and I have had opportunity to visit — opportunity to be more like neighbors. I go whining outside first thing in the morning, reluctant to set my old spine to creaking and, Say! Who’s that who has already cleared most of my driveway for me? Why, it’s Patrick from way down the street. He’s all bundled up and, I tell you what, brother, he means bidness. He’s got his custom shovel — I ask to try it but he won’t let me; says, “Would Babe Ruth let you use his bat? What in the world are you thinking?”

I’ve thought about getting up earlier and earlier, until maybe I can beat Patrick to it; go down and shovel his walk before he can get to shoveling. And I tried, three o’clock in the morning, but, too late, Patrick’s sitting on the steps, waiting for snow to start falling — with that special shovel slung over his shoulder.

 

 

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