By aching Emmet
Plows are for wienies. Shovels, too.
At Cobb Manor, where men are men (at least some of the time) snow storms are mostly disregarded. Long ago, Grady the Redhead and I adopted the “Ram-in, Ram-out” method of winter parking. In this method, you slam into the driveway as hard as your vehicle will go. Then, you own those tracks. No one, I mean no one, is allowed to park in those tracks. If the snow is really deep, you might run back and forth a few times just to a make better landing zone.
No shoveling allowed.
On that day when my aunt, my Honda and my job died simultaneously (phew), I ended up with a four- wheel drive truck loaner. I went about a mile and decided this was for me. It was kind of like the first date with Blue Eyes. I used to back my massive, red, four-wheel Tundra into the driveway when it snowed, so I could slam out to the street in the morning. No plows, no shovels.
I noticed during this period that I had very few visitors, which was not a bad thing.
Anyone who has operated a big red truck through this $3-per-gallon period knows what the problem was. A trip to Eastport would cost an even $100. A poor retired news reporter could not afford 14 miles a gallon. So, the big red truck was sold to Barnum and Bailey (sob) and still another Honda ended up in the Cobb Manor driveway. This is either eight or nine Hondas. I have lost track.
Now, if you want to scream down Route 95 at 80 miles an hour on cruise control, this Honda EX is your baby. But extending the “Ram-in, Ram out” to this sweet ride is a major mistake. Too low to the ground. Last week, I got stuck high and dry on the plow detritus and the neighbors (thank God) pushed me out. Then the fabulous Blue Eyes came for the required Saturday morning shopping trip and got stuck.
I had a (minor) back operation with 21 stitches and was ordered to avoid exercise for several weeks. (Oh, all right.) So, Blue Eyes put me behind the wheel and she started shoveling. (She made me buy a shovel a few days earlier.) We could not get the monster Avalon out of the snow bank. I yelled out the window “Put your back into it,” while she glared.
The Hero happened along in a Maritime Oil Truck, took a look at the Damsel in Distress and pulled over. He looked at me behind the wheel. I thought about telling him about the operation, but figured that his mind was already made up. He shoveled, and then pushed the mighty Avalon out of the snow pile. I am sure that he told the story of the pretty, blue eyed woman shoveling, while her “man” was sitting behind the wheel with the heat on.
My father would have slapped my face.
It reminded me of the Good Old Days when we used to stay at Sugarloaf for White World Week. On days that were just too cold, we would drive around the development roads. I always had a deep appreciation for snow-skidding and I would speed down a road, and then pull the emergency brake, just to see what would happen. One dramatic skid left the car backwards in a snowbank. That day, Blue Eyes took the wheel and I tried to push (no shovel, natch) the car out. Along came a work crew who surveyed the situation with the lady behind the wheel.
“Women drivers,” I said to the manly men and we all shared a deep, masculine laugh. They pushed the car out without raising a sweat and we drove back to the mountainside condo.
“What was so funny, “she asked, naturally.
“Oh, Nothing,” I said.
This is going to be one of “those” winters, I fear. I might have to get a plow guy.
Or a big red Tundra.