Just when you think you can’t lift another shovel of snow, when you begin to whine that you’ve made no progress despite your hours of toil in the driving snow and blizzard winds, when you curse yourself for never having made friends with folks who own plows, one sweeps into your driveway.
This is one of the many reasons why I love Vermont and Vermonters.
There I was late this morning, standing a few feet deep in snow, not yet realizing a true plan of attack for where, exactly, I was going to push and heave all this snow, blinded by the white wind. I plugged away with my sad little shovel for a long, long time when, in front of my wondering eyes did appear, a bright blue pick-up with orange snow-plowing gear. (Sad, huh?) The gentleman who disembarked from said shiny vehicle asked if I would like some help, if he might plow the driveway. He and his family live a half-mile up the road, he explained, and he saw me (pathetically) shoveling and thought I could use a hand. For the record, there was no hesitation on my part. Oh, please, thank you, thank you, thank you. I’ll just stand over here, out of your way. Have at it. Thank you, thank you, thank you.
We chatted when he finished. He wouldn’t take any money, or cocoa, but smiled broadly as he waved goodbye. Little does he know he made my day. My Christmas, for that matter.