I am compelled to admit that over time I have taken to making sport of those who get all ginned up over snowstorms. It’s just a little snow, I say, with a mix of chuckle and disdain. Well, last night I was sacked by the snow, I was pinned deep in my own territory by the snow, I was taunted in the end zone by the snow, and, after establishing in insurmountable lead, the snow continued to run up the score.
Let’s check the stats:
3:52 p.m. – Time I jumped in the plow truck and ran down the hill to help someone get up our hill in a minivan.
1 – Number of times I slid into the ditch with my four-wheel-drive plow truck while “helping” someone in a minivan.
15 – Factor by which I was stuck worse after “gunning” it to get out of the previous predicament. (“Gunning” it known in some circles as “Rammin’ on it.”)
.2 – Number of inches by which my plow blade missed hooking the telephone company’s junction box when everything came to rest. (Time was called in order to count blessings, yea, even in this moment.)
1 – Number of caps borrowed from minivan driver in order to make long walk back up hill to fetch the tractor in driving snow because I was “just gonna run down there and back” and thus dressed myself in the manner of a distracted seventh grader, including no jacket, no cap, and just one glove–which somehow was worse than no gloves at all.
500 – BTUs of necessary warmth generated during hike back up hill during which the coals of self-loathing were fanned by gusts of futile rage.
17 – Degrees required to measure the new angle of the bumper after the neighbor and I got done yanking the truck back on to the road.
5 – Minutes passed before I had the truck stuck again, this time down by the barnyard.
8 – Inches required to measure the length of the crease put in the quarter panel by the railroad tie fencepost down by the barnyard, which isn’t going anywhere.
3 – Total number of times I had to go ask my wife to put all her stuff on again and come help pull me out.
1 – Total number of times right at the end there where I got the plow truck stuck after she had suggested I just park it and wait for daylight.
0 – Exact number of times I asked her for help that time, instead just putting the truck in neutral and yanking it out with the tractor myself.
1 – Number of knots yanked into the brand new tow rope during that last little adventure.
7:52 p.m. – Exact time I just gave up and went in to watch the Packer game.
The Eskimos have a word for snow like this. It is not printable.