When the wind threw snowstorms into billows, pirouetting and spinning off the fields, my family waited for the plowmen to clear our road. We respected the power of the wind to plug it up. We stayed put, sometimes as long as a week, until the town plowed us out. At times, my mother called for them to come, afraid my father with his bum knee would have to walk the mile long road through drifts after dark. I watched for his lights, as they turned onto our road, blurred by blowing snow. I watched as they rounded the last curve.
The township truck plowed the snow like the prow of a ship pushes water aside, the snow exploding into the fields. They dropped the wing to push back a snowbank standing at twenty feet. I thought of how a venetian blind can block a window until someone pulls the cord and draws it up, how the road was cleared letting in light.
My parents invited the crew in for coffee and cookies, with gratitude and to catch up on local news. My heart lifts up the same way when the red dump truck roars down our country road before dawn, the roar of the blade on the pavement, salt splattering behind. These men work all hours to clear and salt the roads so we can go to town, their wives’ sleep disturbed, and family meals eaten alone. Even holiday feasts can be missed if the snow decides to fall.
I’m Katie Andraski and that’s my perspective.
