Landscaping
from the December 6, 2001 Tahoe World
My nose is running.
"You really need to stay ahead of that if you want to keep it clear," says what I'm guessing is a neighbor because she's walking a dog and telling me what to do.
"I know," I reply.
"You know if you don't stay on top of that every day it's just going to keep building up," she elaborates. Her dog is sniffing me.
"Yeah, I know," I say because I know.
"You can't let it get this far."
I don't really have much to say. It's six in the morning for crying out loud.
I wipe off on the back of my glove and go back to shoveling an amorphous area of snow under which, I presume, lies my car.
This is outdoorsmanship at its best. Actually it's even better. Apparently I've got an audience.
Eventually her need to walk the dog outweighs the need to be agreed with and I'm left with only myself to remind me that my car is buried in snow.
I don't even remember why I'm up at this uncanny hour. Something must have been really important and I must need my car to get at it.
The poor judgment really began long before it snowed. My car doesn't even run well in the summer. I know at one time and at one place this was the car to have, but winter in Tahoe really isn't the best place to be relying on a 1982 Cadillac Aircraft Carrier to get you to your appointments.
I really have tried, though. I got snow tires and studs on the rear ones. I had chains last year but they broke. I even had some mechanics look at it. "You should really get that fixed," they said as they handed my keys back.
Clang! Ah, hah! My rear-view mirror has appeared. Now I know for sure where my car is, at least this part of it. The light is here in force now and I can finally see a gap between the burm and the under hull of my vessel. A little scraping of the windows and a vigorous push at clearing a path to the street and my memory kicks in.
Powder day!
Oh yeah, when do the lifts open? When did I wake up? How long have I been out here? Time to start the car and get my gear in.
Poor judgment. I shoveled away the uphill end of the obstruction and my boat isn't moving in that direction unless the lake rises 50 feet.
"You know this is actually my parents' parking space," another must-be neighbor informs me. "And I'd prefer if you shoveled the snow away from our landscaping."
I look in the direction of the landscaping. Apparently "landscaping" can also be used to describe a pile of snow.
"It would be better if you threw the snow across the street," he offers.
I begin to ponder my own effort toward adulthood. Seems as if I'm getting plenty of advice. I'm 24 and I have a job. Two, in fact. When is it going to be my turn to dispense pointers to neighboring strangers? I guess that will happen when I start to plan ahead. The judgment of adulthood sees problems before they arise and clears them out of the way with a diesel Caterpillar backhoe.
This past summer I asked my 11-year old cousin if I was a grown-up and he said no. Why not, I asked. "Because you still talk about boogers."
My nose is still running.
Finally I open up a clear path on the downhill side and my car becomes mobile. Purpose is restored to my sputtering, three-ton chunk of metal and my car roars out of the parking space into my driveway so I can eat breakfast and call my friend to hit the slopes.
Glowing triumphant over my bowl of Grape-Nuts I scoff at Carson Daly trying to introduce me to a Shakira video. He should really plan ahead before using three "unbelievables" in one minute. He needs to stay ahead of that.
I make the call to complete my plans and defy mere neighbors, mechanics and cousins. I am ready to fulfill my destiny. I am ready for adulthood. He picks up. "Mort, are we ready to go?"
"Actually it's still storming over there. The mountain is closed."