Winter has finally come to Colorado. Early this morning our driveway had over a foot of new snow on it. The ploughs that cleared the street before I’d woken up, left a higher, more solid pile at the end of the driveway. I looked at it, shovel in hand, and wasn’t in the mood. I don’t mind shoveling most of the time, but those big frozen piles are daunting. My first scoop got me pretty much nowhere. There was a lot of snow and it was going to take a while. The second and third scoops were just as discouraging. I was reminded of the kitchen sink as the silverware piles up. We don’t have a dishwasher so I scrub every utensil we use by hand. Plates and pots don’t bother me. They go fast enough and there’s a certain satisfaction in getting them done. But just when I’m ready to quit, my back tired from bending over, I see the pile of peanut butter-covered spoons, greasy butter knives, and the perforated spoon we to pull poached eggs out of boiling water and I know I have to wash them. I look at the pile and wonder where to start. I pick up a spoon, wash it, drop it in the neighboring sink to rinse, then pick up another spoon, then a fork. Before too long, everything is washed. The job is done.
It’s the same with the snow. Shoveling is hard work. It’s tough on my back and my aching wrist, but I get it done, one scoop at a time.