The Plutonium Shovel II

*Originally published 12-24-06, and another true storm story, with the potential promise of more to come in a meteorologically El Nino year*

I arose early on Thursday, December 21, and gandered out the winder to see what awaited me. More storm. It had snowed and blowed all night. It was continuing to, as I looked on this bleak Thursday morning about 6:30am.

Ack.

But by 9am, the winds had died. The snow still falling looked more like a picture postcard than an active part of a blizzard. After a second cup of coffee and a resigned "oh hell", I donned/grabbed the essentials -- boots, backbrace, parka, gloves, and my trusty shovel -- and descended the three flights of stairs to examine my work ahead.

And yes, wiseacres, I remembered pants.

I was confronted with a grim scene: a parking stall width, about 25 feet to the plowed lane (from the night before), varying in depth from 18" to about 4 1/2' from drifting. About 45 minutes to an hour of digging to clear it, by my reckoning. It would include not piling snow in the way of fellow residents with stalls on either side of me. It meant, in essence, shovel, walk, dump, repeat.
I'm getting too old for this sh...stuff.

As I began, I remembered the bad disc in my L4/L5 region, and remembered my chiropractor's recent admonition regarding shovelling: it's best left to a 16 year old with a snow blower.

Great advice from a chiropractor I lean toward adoring (forget it, matchmakers; she's married), save for one wee thing: there weren't any of those around. In fact, no one was outside at this time and in this place but me. So I figured to let the uncomfortable backbrace be my reminder, and my ergonomically-designed shovel to prevent me from exceeding my limits.

After about an hour, I had my stall free and clear, and a nice start on Mount St. Snowphfffft, next to the stairwell entrance. I figured I was done.

Psssst.

I looked around. No one in sight.

Psssst. Hey. Down here.

It was my shovel.

Hey, you yutz...I ain't tired. And you ain't done.

"Says who?", I snapped, not thinking about how stupid it was to be hallucinating out loud.

What about the poor folks on the other side of you?

"Ain't they got their own shovel?"

They ain't got one. And they certainly don't have one like me!

"And what the hell is so special about you?"

I'm a plutonium shovel! I can shovel for HOURS!

"Fine...you shovel, and I'll go up stairs.."

What a candyass...if I can do it, you certainly can, you old fart.

What was I to do, being shamed by a talking shovel that claimed to be plutonium? Yeah, I know: the obvious answer was to throw it into Mount St. Snowphffft and let it go to town. But it needed me, much as I had just needed it. So I went ahead and dug out the parking space next to mine. Mount St. Snowphfffft was gaining in both size and stature.

Psssst...nice job. Now let's do the two handicapped folks' spots on the other side of the stairwell.

"Where do you think they're going? They can't even get to their vehicles!"

We'll fix that next, candyass.

Being too useful to bend around the stairwell framing, I resisted the urge to forever reshape Mr. Plutonium and resignedly went to it.

After digging out those two, it was about noon, and I felt spent. But not my maniacal "plutonium" shovel:

Ah ahhhh...get their sidewalk next.

"Shovel, there's a property maintenance crew for that.."

They ain't here...we are. And I'm not tired. Now get to it.

Why the hell I had to wind up buying a talking, pushy shovel I'll never know. Maybe that was the price I paid for avoiding married life, but I digress. At any rate, I dug out the sidewalk.

"Now are we done?" I asked the Plutonium Master of the Snow.

Nope...there's the two stairwells...yours and the other one. Get to it.

"Shovel, I don't know about you, but I'm beat".

I'm fine. And if you hadn't noticed, I'm the one carrying the snow.

"But who's carrying YOU?"

Details, details...get to it.

By this time, a number folks were out and trying to get about, looking at their buried cars with looks akin to "Mommy, make it go away...". Worse, I noticed that almost none of them had a snow shovel. They were trying to dig out with trash can lids...catboxes...buckets...even ice scrapers.

I was going to ask one particularly forlorn-looking 20-something female in ski gear, wielding a small trashcan and flailing rather hopelessly at the drift encasing her vehicle, if she didn't have an Xbox to use on the snow, but my shovel kicked me in the shin and shamed me into helping her.

Help her out; she's a babe.

"I don't care about that; she's half my age!"

She isn't half mine!

I don't think anyone noticed me kicking the shovel back. I don't care if they did.

The next thing I knew, I was helping another stranded female resident..then two gents of Arabic extraction...another female who tried unsuccessfully to use her Kia Sophia as a battering ram, when she tired of using a drinking glass as a shovel...an elderly gent who was rather amused that I was talking to my shovel...a trio of lads who had combined to attack a drift with a broom, dustpan and catbox...some poor fool who's rear-wheel drive Audi needed a push after being dug out...and finally, a young couple's Toyota Camry. In the midst of all this carnage (pun sorta intended), a couple of 7 year olds approached me tentatively:

"Mr., can we borrow your snow shovel?"

"I and it are kinda busy right now...what do you want it for?"

"We're trying to make a snow tunnel over there (where the plow truck I'd helped liberate the night before had been pushing snow in this part of the lot)".

"I'm sorry, but my snow shovel is plutonium, and says no...it has more important things to do".

I did NOT say that.

The kids ran screaming from the talking shovel.

I'll get you for that.

"I'd a sworn you already had".

It was nearing 5pm by now, and I was at a point I was sure I couldn't climb my stairs to fall face first on the floor.

Okay, candyass...I guess we can call it a day. But I could go on all night long.

"I think I can find the energy to put your plutonium ass up for bid on Ebay..."

I'm just kidding, candya...er...fella.

So I dragged me and my plutonium shovel up three flights of stairs, and wearily called it a day. And the shovel worse.

Next morning -- predictably -- I felt my age, times two. If it didn't hurt, it wasn't attached to me. I limped into the front room in the unsteady direction of the coffee pot, when I heard IT: I'm ready and raring to go! Who're we digging out today?

I buried the shovel scoop-first on my still snow-bound patio. Last I heard, it was still grumbling...