John Zeitler

Saturday morning was a bittersweet time for me. There’s always the peaceful feeling of watching snow falling, seeing the accumulation as the piles start to grow in the yard. The gentle winds blow the snow into drifts– and, as chaotic as they may seem to be, the wind is consistent and creates those drifts always in the same places every snowfall, every year. I relished the feeling of being snowed in, without responsibilities and without anywhere particular to go.

Then I realized a fact that chilled me to the bone in my warm apartment. I’m not alone here.

I don’t talk about my neighbors much. Predominantly we keep to ourselves; I know just enough about them to stay more or less out of their way, and they mine. I do, however, know that several of them are less than healthy. I know that some of those cannot even lift a shovel, let alone use it to clear paths to the road. And I know that at least one might be, in a worst case scenario, in immediate need of an ambulance.

I also knew, Saturday morning, that there was no way in hell any car was going to make it near our door. So I did what pretty much any kid raised within spitting distance of Buffalo did. I wrapped myself up in three layers of clothes, grabbed my gloves, and went looking for the snow shovel.

The last time there had been a snowstorm, someone had bought a snow shovel and left it in the front foyer with a note that said it was to help dig out in case someone needed it. Obviously, it wasn’t there. It was only a moment until I tracked down which of my neighbors had set it up; my plan was to go up, borrow the shovel, and clear a path to the main road via some stone stairs that were positioned in between the dumpsters. That’s when I discovered that the shovel had, in fact, been stolen within about a week of its initial appearance. The irate neighbor indicated that the hardware store up the street had shovels in stock, and that he was donning his hunting gear to wade through the snow and get there. He also said that the maintenance guys don’t work on weekends (prior to this I had just assumed he’d been running late). I was ready now, so I told him I was heading on ahead.

When I say I had to “wade” through the snow, I’m not being figurative. Snow is, after all, frozen water. It piles up better than water does, and it wound up being just about 20 inches or so by the time I went out and dashed into the drifts. Rushing into freezing air and snow up to my knees meant that it took all of my effort and strength to blaze the first footsteps to the staircase, then up it and to the poorly-plowed road. Granted, I’m mildly out of shape, but this was like running through a thunderstorm turned to full blast. It was a minute or so until I caught my breath at the top of the stairs and started up the hill to the hardware store.

At the store, I went straight for what I needed. I bought a shovel, a granola bar and an energy drink. The food was wolfed down quickly in the lobby as I tried to recover some of my strength, and as I was polishing off the drink, I called Mom to check in. In one of those strange little quirks, it turned out that there was no snow at all up there. Everything else was fine at home, though, and I told her my plan.

It took me about an hour to dig paths to the main trail from each doorway I came by on my way back down to the stone staircase. I took a brief moment to rest there, then started clearing those stairs as well, and a full path to the door to my building. I started to feel woozy about 80% of the way there… which was good, because by that point, three other people who had been following me with their shovels had finished the rest of the way. I thanked them, walked back down the stairs to my apartment, and crashed into bed.

I don’t particularly care to brag. I didn’t do this for any kind of thanks or reward, and I didn’t get either (maybe a couple of half-hearted “thanks”). I did it because it needed to be done, and nobody else was gonna do it.

For my next trick, I’m gonna survive the coming zombie apocalypse with naught but a snow shovel and a bag of twistie-ties.