The flat-horned rhinos of winter

That grisly old bastard winter is punishing my hopes of spring with every ounce of ice and cold he can muster up in these last weeks of his reign. I believe it was around Christmas or Thanksgiving that I started talking smack at the in-laws about how I wasn't going to spend a dime on snow removal all year, in a wine induced moment sealing my fate of stiff vertebrae, sore hands, cold feet, and all the other ills associated with manual snow removal.

After getting stuck in our 208 foot driveway once again this morning, leaving me to put up with the various taunts of coworkers at my primitive style, and again tonight, I broke down and began the quest of finding a plowman. On any given day when even the lightest flurry is dancing in the wind, I pass nearly a half dozen of the buggers on my way to work, but as I perused the phonebook this evening I realized that they were a more elusive creature than I had bargained for.

Hiring a plowman is based heavily on local tittle-tattle, suggestions from close family, and neighbor recommendations. Listing their seasonal service in the phonebook is out of the question, such reckless vanity is as frivolous as it is dangerous, for such legitimacy might only prompt tax attention in this black art. I know they're out there. I can hear them on cold nights, engines whining as they throw thousands of pounds of snow and ice around in the surrounding rural neighborhoods with the grace of a angry rhinoceros.

By 8 this evening, our cars still parked dangerously in the street, I realized we might have a problem. Finding a plowman on a Wednesday evening is more difficult than scoring a bag of grass at a Church Camp. It took a recommendations from an in-law, two calls to the neighbors, a call to the local gas station, and finally a call to a guy who "might know someone" to finally achieve the services of an old plowman named Dick. His name was too generic and struck me as an alias, but I questioned not his identity as he cut deep into the vintages of snow and ice which have caused so much stress in the past few months.

Even though the service ran a fair $25, it was clear he was enjoying the gig. He reached unheard-of speeds in our driveway only to slam full force into the snow, slip the loose transmission into reverse, back up, and do it again and again and again. I watched him with great amusement for the first 45 minutes or so, but headed back inside to thaw out my feet. He finished up shortly there after and slipped back into the cold darkness; cash in pocket, taxes uncharged, vehicle aged with abuse. I'm in the club.