NOVEMBER 12, 2020 – Tuesday brought a much-needed diversion from politics: a plunge in temperature followed by sleet, then snow. My drive home from an appointment near the capitol was a nerve-wracking expedition—streets were an icy mess, and banana-peel-inclines were especially problematic. At one hilltop intersection I had no traction when the light turned green. As the car slid backward I maneuvered it into a K-turn, then held on for dear life as my car-now-bobsled accelerated down the hill to an intersection where I hoped to hell my run would coincide with a green light. The gods were with me.
I navigated the rest of the six-mile trip safely by extra-judicious use of brakes, flashers, low gear, and steering wheel, and careful application of accelerator—all while visibility narrowed through the ice on my windshield. Miraculously, I avoided hitting inanimate objects and vehicles that were re-enacting bumper cars at the amusement park.
After the snowfall ended late Tuesday night, I channeled Don Madole.
Don and his dear wife Adie were a few years older than my parents. They were neighborhood stalwarts when we moved in almost 35 years ago. Everyone loved them—and noticed that they adhered to high standards of good neighborliness in all departments, including snow removal. Whenever it snowed, Don was the very first person on either side of the block to be out snow blowing—and in particularly heavy snows, Don cleared well beyond the Madole’s lot lines.
Tuesday night I was the first one on our block to clear our sidewalks. As I shoveled I realized that I was older than Don was when we moved into the neighborhood. The world turns.
By daybreak Wednesday morning the storm was long gone. A low November sun peeked through the bare trees and into random corners of our house.
Low overnight temperatures had reduced the moisture content of the snow, though the forecast promised warmer air by early afternoon. Carpe diem. I grabbed my ski gear and with early season enthusiasm, headed for my first day of the ski season over in “Little Switzerland”—a hilly golf course on the north side of Como Regional Park about a mile from our back door.
Not so fast. The ice-covered sidewalks and alleyways en route forced me to walk like a forward-leaning caveman. In a slip-and-fall, better to bust a wrist than the back of my head. I thought about Don Madole again. He wasn’t that tall, but even in his 90s he had very good posture, and he never had to exercise the caution of a caveman. Don’s sidewalks were always ice-free, and thanks to his example, so were everyone else’s.
I had Little Switzerland all to myself and acquired my “ski legs” after the first couple of strides. Many people in our neighborhood complain about winter, but Don Madole never did. Neither will I . . . as long as I can ski.
After my workout, however, I did what (thrifty) Don Madole had done three decades ago. I broke down and bought a snow blower.
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© 2020 by Eric Nilsson
