The Truth About Shoveling Snow…
I wrote this about a month ago for my husband’s blog…
I like to think of myself as a modern woman: a much softer and forgiving version of the radical feminists that grabbed headlines in the 1970’s. A woman who, while perfectly capable of maintaining complete independence, instead chooses to embrace the loving support of her family. A woman who kept her maiden name to demonstrate she doesn’t define herself by her relationship with her husband, or anyone else for that matter.
And then there are times that I realize I’m simply kidding myself. I’d actually be hard pressed to survive more than a week on my own.
These realizations generally come when an appliance breaks down, a particularly nasty bug crawls across the floor or a warning light comes on in my car. At these times, my first instinct is to call my husband for help. And I generally follow my instincts.
After the crisis that precipitated the distress call is addressed, my internal crisis begins and I wonder if I’m a hypocrite. This requires me to prove I am independent or at least capable of independence when required.
So, when I have the opportunity to prove that I am tough, I thoroughly embrace the challenge. That’s why I love shoveling snow.
Well, not love exactly. To be perfectly honest, I actually hate the actual act of shoveling snow. I hate the way my fingers and toes go numb after the first ten minutes of battling in the biting, wet cold. I hate the fact that by the time I’ve reached the bottom of the driveway, the rest of the driveway is covered and I have to do the whole thing over again. And most of all, I hate the plows that always manage to push snow off the street and right into my driveway, which, of course, requires more snow shoveling.
What I do love is the challenge and the accompanying sense of pride and accomplishment. Shoveling the driveway proves that I CAN take care of myself. And, in a moment of honest self examination, I even admit that I feel a bit superior to the neighbors who have given in to the lure of the gas guzzling snow blower to clean driveways that are no larger than mine. After all, who needs a snow blower when you’ve got strength and fortitude?
Last year, however, even my strength and fortitude wavered a bit. Despite my desire to prove I can conquer the driveway, the snowstorms of February 2010 almost conquered me. During those storms, my husband’s employer put him up in a hotel room in D.C to ensure he could be on the job as needed. So, while our two children and I were valiantly trying to clear the driveway of three feet of snow, he was sending me photos of what the hotel pool looked like in the snow. I think that gave me a bit of a license to complain. And complain I did.
But that doesn’t mean I’m giving up on snow shoveling. In fact, I’m actually beginning to embrace it as another form of exercise. This winter, I just wanted to ensure I was prepared for whatever Mother Nature brought. For me, that required the biggest snow shovel available.
And my husband obliged and added a shiny, gigantic snow shovel to the arsenal in the garage.
During the most recent round of bad weather, he made a point of joining me in our efforts to clear the driveway. I had grabbed the smaller shovel, but he picked up the larger shovel and handed it to me.
“That’s o.k,” I said. “This one is fine.”
“It’s fine,” he said, “but it’s not yours.” He handed me the new shovel, “This one is yours.”
My own personal snow shovel? What more could I ask for? If that’s not saying I’m a modern woman I don’t know what does.
Valentines Day 2011: Genes, Family, Love and, of Course, Dogs
I never grew up with really warm and fuzzy feelings for my grandfather. The strained relationship was more than just a matter of not clicking. It was more an issue of two head strong people who were so sure they were in the right, the other person had to be wrong.
When I first began complaining about him to my mother, she tried to convince me he had a lot of great qualities. And, if I look at the matter objectively, I can see that he did. As a child growing up in Oregon, he and my grandmother made sure that, even in their seventies, they travelled from Michigan to visit us twice a year. No matter what. Even after my uncle died in a plane crash, they still made the trip via air at times, which I now realize was extremely hard on them.
And when it came to matters of giving gifts of money or material possessions, he went beyond the call of duty to be fair.
But when it came to matters of who he respected and held in high regards, I never measured up. Not because I wasn’t smart or determined. I was both. What I didn’t have was the ability to keep my mouth shut, a natural respect for my elders or, most importantly, a Y chromosome. And nothing was ever going to change that. And therefore, nothing was going to change about my relationship with him. Or so I thought.
But time and perspective have a way of altering our views. Admittedly, when my grandfather died of Alzheimer’s in 1998, my relationship with him hadn’t changed. But now in my mid-forties, I’ve bumped along the path of life long enough to accept some of the hard lessons it teaches.
And one of the toughest for me was recognizing how much I am like my grandfather.
Granted, I think I could teach him a thing or two about tolerance and about not taking life too seriously, but other than that? I’m definitely his granddaughter. No doubt about it. I’m no scientist, but I have no question that the helix of DNA he passed on to me carried the genes for being outspoken, strong-willed, and impatient. That same blue print is also completely missing the genes for being calm, detached and deferential.
I may not care about the same things he cared about, but I don’t think that matters. At least not to me. Granted, my conservative grandfather is probably rolling over in his grave at some of my beliefs and loyalties, but that’s all right. What’s shaped my passions and values isn’t part of the DNA. I get those from my life experiences and the choices I’ve made.
But in remembering my grandfather, I realize there was one passion we shared. And, even though there may be no scientific proof, I’m pretty sure it is an inherited trait. I’m positive that there is a gene for undying love and compassion for animals, particularly dogs.
I know my rigid, self-controlled grandfather was beholden to the pull of the “dog gene.” His absolute adoration of dogs above people is only matched by my own. When my children or husband comment about how I love dogs more than I love them, I smile. I know I should be denying it, but instead, I think of my grandfather: a man who would fly or even drive a couple thousand miles to visit his daughter and grandchildren. Or so everyone else thought.
But even as a young girl, I knew differently. When he and my grandmother would arrive at our house, it wasn’t me or my brother that would make his face light up. It was the sight of our lab/German Short hair mix, Charlie Brown, that would make his eyes twinkle and his usually stern mouth break into a smile. And, if you look back through family photo albums, I think there are more pictures of grandfather with Charlie Brown than there with any of the rest of us.
I never saw my grandfather get enthusiastic about much, but he was always enthusiastic about animals. And even though a lot of things about my grandfather bothered me,that never did. And now I know why.
Because I was exactly like him. I still am. And, now, I appreciate all the traits he passed on to me.
Now, on this Valentine’s Day when we are supposed to let those we love know, I don’t have the opportunity to tell my grandfather what I’ve learned. That I loved his passion for animals, and, after all these years, I know I also loved him for that passion… not as much as I love my dog, but I still loved him.
Happy Valentine’s Day, Grandpa.
Just So You Know 
