A commentary about snow shoveling in New England

Topsham, ME: February 8, 2020: 

After two days of snow and ice falling in Maine, this back page essay, published in the AAA Magazine, "Northern New England Journey", describes a somewhat positive experience, considering the alternatives.

Winter Workout- illustration is by Virginia Vallely published in Northern New England Journey

In other words, some people like snow. Nevertheless, I'm not sure this description about snow shoveling is convincing enough to encourage me to take on the challenge. I stopped shoveling snow when my sons learned how to operate our snow blower. Today, we hire a snow plow guy who charges us $50 a plow! Ouch.

Congratulations to Erika Cohen, for publishing this perspective about snow shoveling:

Winter Workout- The Joys of Shoveling Snow, by Erika Cohen, who lives in Chester New Hampshire
(No link is available to this essay)

"I love snowstorms in New England!", she wrote.

Especially the first one of the season, when the meteorologists warn us about how it will snow all day, and night and leave a multi-foot blanket of white in its wake.

First, the roads get too slick for regular car traffic, and the rhythm of passing cars through the woods on the main road slows.

Then, traffic is limited to the occasional passing vehicle. Their tires leave tiny slivers of bare pavement that the falling snow quickly fills. 

Finally, the verge between the road and the lawns is barely distinguishable and night falls.

When the sun comes up, our lawn glistens, revealing hundreds of tiny footprints from mice along with dual tracks of snowshoe hare and signature two-toed deer prints.

The distant rumbling of snow blowers and the occasional screeching of metal plows against pavement on our street fill my neighborhood. I hear these sounds, but I do not contribute to them. Because, my family hasn't owned a snow plow in more than a decade. Tiny rocks from our unpaved driveway would get stuck inside. We fixed it once, maybe twice, the blades would always stop turning. And, since we needed to get our kids to day care and ourselves to work, we just switched to shovels.

We have not switched back.

Instead, we have shoveled ourselves out from every major snowstorm that has come our way since - a foot of fluffy snow here, a few feet of wet snow there and many smaller 6-10 inch storms. Our close friends have stopped asking when we will get a snowblower or hire a plow guy.

Our routine has been perfected by many storms. After dark, we shovel what we can with the driveway light to guide us. While shoveling, I've heard owls and the skittering of nocturnal animals in the woods next to the small pond on our land. When our kids were little, my husband and I took turns. Now that they are older, my son joins us, alternating between shoveling, sledding and snow shoeing around the front woods.

Shoveling snow has a rhythmic quality to it. I outline 4-foot-long rectangular chunks and shovel out the middles before moving down the driveway. Push, lift, throw, push, lift throw. Deep breath. Push, lift, throw, push , lift, throw. Deep breath. The world smells and tastes clean.

My shoulders and hands ache, but when I am done, I am very grateful for our warm house.

(Maine Writer Julie's response is "Amen".)

Meaningful Christmas essay

We Hardly Knew Ye: an essay about the Season, by Dorie McKeeman, of Hollis, New Hampshire.

This lovely essay was published in the AAA Northern New England Journey, January/;February 2019 edition.

In the narrative, the author McKeeman draws out the human emotions in response to the traditions, and symbols we hold dear. She describes how nature and traditions converge, while reflecting on the ritual of taking down our Christmas Trees.
We share her experience, each in our own way.

In my home, when growing up in Baltimore, this symbolism was evident to our neighborhood, as well as to those of us in the family, because our tree did not come down until after the Epiphany.  

This was because, in the Eastern Rite religious beliefs, those of my father's heritage, it was our tradition to observe the Feast of the Epiphany, by keeping up the Christmas Tree, although, most other families had taken theirs down.

Dorie McKeeman wrote:

Taking down the Christmas tree is always bittersweet.  

Behold our Christmas tree, so welcome a guest some weeks ago.  The stalwart symbol still stands tall and trimmed, releasing its fragrance of fir.  Hardy, hearty branches, like arms uplifted, refuse to droop, green needles still cling. But, the calendar has turned over its 12 days since Christmas, Epiphany - Three Kings Day - has come. The annual ritual is upon me.

And yet....

I come to the task with apology on my lips, a twinge of regret in my heart, and a final, full embrace.  Burying my face into the tinseled, twinkling boughs, I remember the rush oficy air that swirled up the stem when this vibrant visitor first arrived in our living room- such a bracing anticipation of the season! The, the colors of the day were warm, regal, and bold; crimson, violet, green, gold. Music in the air sounded - even felt- full, and round, and lush, expansive with dancing, and reverence and joy: The first noel....fa-la-la-la....and lo...ye faithful....sleigh bells...snow...O Tannenbaum...a midnight manger...holly...holy...I'll be home.

Now, across the snow-laden yard in the late afternoon's dimming light, a skimming layer of fog amplifies January's bleak palette. Naked oaks and maples in lengthening silhouette peer through our window.  Having shed their own decorations months ago, they've been savoring our cheery indoor display of colored lights, and ornaments, beads, and garland. As winter's spare watchmen, they sympathize with this cyclic undressing.  They understand what "season" means.

I hesitate, release a breath, and nod an affirmation. For its weeks as the gracious, steadfast overseer of our family's celebrations of the coming of the Light of the World, our Christmas tree accepts my respectful thanks.

Now, it is dusk. Storage boxes huddle with a knowing patience, converging at the doorway. Outside, the dispersing fog reveals the current season's stark colors: Black, scraggly branches pierce a sky of deepening midwinter blue, and dark trunks sink into a coat of white.  The view looks like the cover art on my favorite winger music, there atop our stack of holiday music CDs. Aah- what do the sages say about coincidence?  I tuck A Winter's Solstice in to play, close my eyes, and invite this haunting spell of songs to stretch and span the seasons.

For a few more moments, Christmas lingers; time holds its breath. The, music meant to greet the dawn tip-toes in and (so fitting even at twilight) the serene yet stirring strains of "New England Morning" usher me through this turning time.

Because, no matter the fervent resolutions or the partying crowds or the date on the calendar, until I honor this rite- taking down the Christmas tree- my heart does not fully embrace the new year.

I reach up and lift the golden star from the highest bough.