Snowfall Scofflaws

'Tis the season for many of us to celebrate the transformed landscape, and for some to complain about its considerable gravity. We received our first major snow this week. My definition of major is 4", my threshold for firing up the snowblower. Below that, my aging back moves the mess; above that, I wrestle the heavy contraption and it pitches a blizzard where I desire.

There are two types of people in this world--those who shovel after the storm and scofflaws. Our neighbor Frida is the most dedicated shoveler in south Minneapolis. She works continuously from the descent of the first flake until spring to ensure that snow never taints her driveway, using a small snowblower, a leaf blower, road salt, and even an actual shovel in continuous rotation. She also keeps the sidewalks clear, of course, but where she starts to get a little kooky is by clearing the strip between the walk and the street. I think I've finally persuaded her to not push that particular snow into the traffic lanes, which is entirely counterproductive, given that the strip is the place where plows deposit the street snow. But her grandest achievement, after the recent dump of 8+ inches, is the clearing of her entire yard down to the grass. Where does it go? Into her neighbors' yards, of course. Not that I would mind this if we lived next door, but the dearth of logic behind this Sisyphean endeavor baffles me. I mean, if it's a good idea to shovel the yard (!!), why dump it on your neighbor? So, Frida is one extreme.

On the other extreme is Gustafson, across the street. Like us, he has a corner lot, so his work is cut out for him. Which makes no difference--he might shovel a thin path to his doorway from the street so he can prance in sneakers to his car. But if he ever clears the corner, which is used ever day by dozens of schoolkids awaiting the bus, it's two weeks after the fact following a prolonged thaw. "See! I'm shovelin'!" he seems to boast as he stops to catch his breath every thirty seconds. Gustafson isn't such a bad guy, but he has already reserved a stained couch seat in the Slacker Hall of Fame.

Finally, there are those who never seem to grasp the rhythm of the city's street plowing process--the arcane Snow Emergency. I don't mind so much those who actually get caught and towed, though they can stuff their complaints. They, at least, are forced to ransom their autos to ensure future snow removal. It's the one's that don't get hooked before the plow comes through that trample my civic sensibilities. They are a menace, scofflaws of the winter streets, sitting for weeks safely within levees of chunky, salty, grey-white snow; icebound monuments of apathy.

It's hard work, this seasonal rearrangement of precipitation that refuses to flow. It's also a simple civic gesture, one of the few ways we as residents are required to pitch in and help a city function. But the requirements, like the abominable snowman after elfin dentistry, are mostly toothless.