It's Not Even Winter Yet ...

right now, my study window
(that's a young Charles Dickens in the upper right window pane)

That's right: It's not even winter yet, and I've already shoveled twice (both times were yesterday). Last year (I checked) I did not shovel the walk until February.

Now, don't go all judgmental on me: I did not shovel it last year because it required no shoveling. It was not (merely) lassitude that kept me from bonding with my snow shovel.

It's also Damn Cold today--below twenty, usually a clue for me to wear my heaviest winter coat. My parka. But I  didn't. Again--not lassitude but attitude: I refuse to bundle up like that until the solstice.

Which evokes a memory ... During the 1978-79 academic year, Joyce and I were teaching at Lake Forest College; Lake Forest, IL (up the lake from Chicago). Chicagoland had its worst winter on record that year--bitter cold, massive snowfall. (Welcome to Lake Forest!)

Anyway, when the vernal equinox arrived, I decided that since it was officially spring, I was going to wear my spring-weight jacket. Damn the Consequences!

Actually, Damn Me. I froze. Got a bad cold. But, lying in bed, sniffling, I was proud that I had adhered to my standards!  I had character (if not wisdom).

I turned thirty-four that year in Lake Forest, and I am happy to say that, in most ways, I'm no longer that stupid. (Though my refusing to don my parka this morning might make you wonder.)

This morning, I had to go to the local medical lab and have a blood draw (tests, tests, tests--it's like being in public school or something!). Anyway, I got to laughing with the phlebotomist, whom I've gotten to know fairly well because of my frequent visits there.

We were laughing about shoveling snow--about having sons so that they could do it. And I was reminded of a time our son was in high school. Snow fell. We asked (!) him to go out and shovel, please. (Not his favorite job.) Joyce and I watched him through a window. He was shoveling, yes, but he was also "acting out"--raging, raging like mad King Lear on the heath. Gestures and all.

When he came back in, his performances over, we thanked him and hoped to heaven that the tears of laughter were not still evident in our faces.

Anyway, now that he's grown up and left home and has his own sidewalk and driveway to shovel (and two sons of his own), I am left to do it (though Joyce will do it now and again, as well).

And yesterday ... I too felt like Lear and wanted to cry aloud to the Snow Gods: Damn you! It's not even winter yet!

But I restrained myself. I am ... mature now. And--you know?--the neighbors could be watching. Don't want to make them laugh themselves into wetness.