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Shoveling snow isn’t one of my main pastimes: I’m more of a “Let’s read a book” kind of guy.
But this past weekend, I’ve done my part in snow shoveling.
On Sunday, after nearly a week of being stuck in the driveway and depending on the kindness of co-workers for rides to and from work, to and from Family Market, to and from the dollar store and to and from the pharmacy (by the way, thanks Dustin, Rick, Amye and Todd) I decided I’d give it another go in digging the truck out.
I’d gotten it stuck on Feb. 1 just as our “thundersleet” was changing over to “Snowpocalypse Now.” It was sitting “catywampus” (is that a word? It is in the Ozarks) in my driveway, rear wheels mired in, well, mire.
So with a trusty shovel, I began.
A few years ago, one of my co-workers, Minnesota-transplant Robin Burtis, said that pickup owners in her home state shoveled their snow into their truck beds. The weight gave them traction and when the sun finally made its appearance, the snow melted. No unloading of traction weight required.
That idea appealed to my lazy side. So I shoveled the contents of the snow ridge left by the plows into the bed of my Sierra.
Then I shoveled out about six feet in front of the truck, in order to pull the Jimmy forward and get a run at it.
Then I tried it.
First, with a snow mountain in the back of your truck, you can’t see behind you too well. Secondly, I didn’t account for the extra weight helping me dig extra deep into the gravel of my driveway.
It was spin city. Remembering that video of a few weeks ago when the southerner caught his tires on fire spinning them on a snowy road, I quit while I was ahead.
Nearly eight hours had transpired since I first tackled this project. I was no closer to getting out of my driveway
than I was last Wednesday.
“That’s it!” I told Phyllis. “I’m gonna sell my truck, and just take cabs the rest of my life!”
She informed me her sister and brother-in-law had heard my plight and were en route at that very minute.
“I don’t care. I’m exhausted!” I exclaimed. “I’m wet, I’m cold, I’m tired and I’m hungry. I’m done. No more.”
Shoveling snow isn’t one of my main pastimes: I’m more of a “Let’s read a book” kind of guy.
But this past weekend, I’ve done my part in snow shoveling.
On Sunday, after nearly a week of being stuck in the driveway and depending on the kindness of co-workers for rides to and from work, to and from Family Market, to and from the dollar store and to and from the pharmacy (by the way, thanks Dustin, Rick, Amye and Todd) I decided I’d give it another go in digging the truck out.
I’d gotten it stuck on Feb. 1 just as our “thundersleet” was changing over to “Snowpocalypse Now.” It was sitting “catywampus” (is that a word? It is in the Ozarks) in my driveway, rear wheels mired in, well, mire.
So with a trusty shovel, I began.
A few years ago, one of my co-workers, Minnesota-transplant Robin Burtis, said that pickup owners in her home state shoveled their snow into their truck beds. The weight gave them traction and when the sun finally made its appearance, the snow melted. No unloading of traction weight required.
That idea appealed to my lazy side. So I shoveled the contents of the snow ridge left by the plows into the bed of my Sierra.
Then I shoveled out about six feet in front of the truck, in order to pull the Jimmy forward and get a run at it.
Then I tried it.
First, with a snow mountain in the back of your truck, you can’t see behind you too well. Secondly, I didn’t account for the extra weight helping me dig extra deep into the gravel of my driveway.
It was spin city. Remembering that video of a few weeks ago when the southerner caught his tires on fire spinning them on a snowy road, I quit while I was ahead.
Nearly eight hours had transpired since I first tackled this project. I was no closer to getting out of my driveway
than I was last Wednesday.
“That’s it!” I told Phyllis. “I’m gonna sell my truck, and just take cabs the rest of my life!”
She informed me her sister and brother-in-law had heard my plight and were en route at that very minute.
“I don’t care. I’m exhausted!” I exclaimed. “I’m wet, I’m cold, I’m tired and I’m hungry. I’m done. No more.”
Well, the in-laws arrived as I was catching my breath. Simultaneously, the next-door neighbor’s dad — en route to his son’s Super Bowl party — came up driving a blue tractor.
“Hook on!” he said and my brother-in-law complied. I hopped in the truck, started it, and put it in reverse. He yanked and I gave it gas. The truck shot out of the drive like a cork out of a bottle.
Knock on wood, or a block of ice melt, I’m still out and about. I’ve enjoyed the independence. I even like the funny looks I get when I transport my own glacier around.
Maybe I’ll turn the Sierra’s bed into a giant ice cream freezer. I’ve already got the snow and rock salt. Now a little cream and some vanilla and I’ll be in business.
And on the serious side, thanks to everyone who helped get me and my little two-wheel drive pick-em-up back on the road. I appreciate it.
John Ford is managing editor of the Daily News. E-mail him your snow horror stories at jford@neoshodailynews.com.
