I do not have a snow blower. And I refuse to buy one. My neighbors all have snow blowers. I don’t know why they don’t just plow on over to my house. The coffee is always on.
After the last storm, snow mounted at our front door, drifting to over 3 feet. The entrance to the driveway was blocked by a huge pile of white stuff, the result of a private company plowing our cul de sac. I was a man just primed to be taken advantage of by some savvy kid who knew I was a senior citizen with a decent job, back problems and a cardiologist on retainer.
I walked outside and scanned the neighborhood. A few of my more fit neighbors were hard at work, if you call pushing that snow blower “work.” But teenagers, shoveling snow? Not a one. Where were those big, manly 17-year-olds whose parents have bumper stickers that say, “My son is a lineman for Warren Central”? I’ll tell you where they were: they checked the Internet to be sure schools were closed, then turned over and went back to sleep. Doesn’t anyone want my 5 bucks? (Oh, it’s 40 now? See how long it’s been since anyone has come by?)
I’ve had kids lined up on my front step for the last 15 years looking for free handouts at Halloween. Now, they’re old enough to make an honest buck. Where are they?
When I was a kid in New York, as soon as school was canceled due to heavy snowfall, my best friend Arthur and I got into our warm coats, armed ourselves with shovels, then set out in the neighborhood by 8 a.m. to make a financial killing. I remember one day coming home with a wad of scrunched-up wet bills in my pocket. I showed my mom the stash of $52. “That’s more than your father made today!” she said. She wasn’t kidding.