Shovel

March 2, 2026

Greetings from the weight,

Snow fell in swollen, ponderous flakes, floated into the world and coated it with a silent white duvet.  The yards changed shape, erasing easements and borders between the houses nested against one another on our street. The pine tree that nearly filled our front yard sagged under the weight of the winter’s frosting.

My age was still in single digits, still a time when I believed in Santa, but didn’t look too closely. When it snowed, it was an event.  Sometimes the schools closed, a holiday that ranked up in the stratosphere with birthdays.  The TV could be on in the morning, a rarity, and I sat with my bowl of Cap’n Crunch, waiting for some grown-up on the news to say I would have the day free from the stifling clench of education.

On mornings like this, I was layered in long johns and sweaters and whatever else I could pull on before I zipped up my parka.  I was of an age that resisted help, but somehow my mother was involved, pulling on a hat, making sure I had Wonder Bread bags for my feet, helping me to buckle my boots.

I lumbered off the front porch into the snow. The squeak under my boots told me it was good packing, which meant there might be snowmen later, or a fort, or snowball fights.  It could be good sledding, but only if the city could clear the streets so we could convince my dad to drive us to Kearsley Park.  But first there would be shoveling.

My dad’s patience with us kids shoveling was limited, but there was some expectation we would help.  My sister and I might hack at the porch and the steps, maybe try to clear the little strip of cement that divided the tiny yard.

Once I’d made a resentful, but dramatic, display at that effort, then I would be free to play. It would be a while before my friends would show on the street to inspire whatever mischief the day held.  I don’t remember where the inspiration came from, given my tepid enthusiasm for shoveling, but somehow I got the brilliant idea I could go clear snow for money.

There were a lot of kids in the neighborhood, some who travelled in teams, so the competition for the ‘older’ people’s driveways was steep. As soon as it was light enough, kids would clump down the street, shovels over their shoulders like union pickets, knocking on doors and quoting a price to clear the snow.  I would have to hustle to get in on this opportunity.

I was suddenly filled with energy. I asked my parents if I could do this and they gave me exasperated approval, which in retrospect was obvious relief to have me out from under foot.  I pulled a shovel from the garage and set off to make my fortune. 

The shovel was man-sized.  It had a long, rough wooden handle, and the scoop was iron, rusted and bent at the corners, one of those tools my dad bought second-hand, and would keep until it dissolved. I carried it on my shoulder until it hurt and then tried dragging it behind me as I trudged through the hip-deep snow.

I knew I’d have no luck on my street, so I wobbled around the block, which for me was like traveling to a foreign land.  I waded through the snow, walking in the middle of the street since there were no cars moving, trying to imagine how I would spend the fortune I would earn.

It was a modest bungalow, the drive and walk unblemished by footprints.  I labored up the steps and knocked on the door.  A woman answered, and called to her husband, “There’s a kid here wants to shovel our snow.”  The man came to the door and asked how much I would charge.  I lost all thought, and stood with my mouth open long enough for him to say, “Ok, how about you do the drive and sidewalk for a dollar?”  I nodded, thrilled to my core about having actual paper money, when nearly all my wealth previously came to me in coins.

I pushed the snow off the stoop and hacked away at the tiny walk, and by the time I reached the end I was panting.  I dug into the snow over the sidewalk, trying to heave it into the yard, but barely clearing the top of the mounded snow.  There were moments when snow and shovel outweighed me, and my arms shook as I tried to lever the wet bulk off the cement.

My nose ran, and I gasped for air, puffs of white swirling around my face, the moisture freezing on the edge of my knit hat.  Under the myriad layers, I was sweating from the effort, while ironically my fingers were numb inside my mittens.  It felt like I had been working all day, while the clock barely moved through an hour.  When the sidewalk was mostly clear, I fell back in the snow, tears stinging my eyes.  I considered my options, including running away, back to my own country.

I felt the cold leeching into me, and rolled up off the snow; my arms and legs were jelly. I looked up the driveway, stifled a little sob. I pushed the shovel into the snow and it stayed there, like Excalibur.

I can only imagine the conversation in the little bungalow.  The woman pestering her husband to get out and help that poor boy, and him grumbling about kids today and no respect for money or hard work and her saying to just do it and she was going to make hot chocolate and then maybe kissing him as he pushed through the side door to get his shovel, telling him he was a good man.

All that I saw was this man, somebody’s grandpa, in his plaid winter coat, big hunting boots, leather gloves, slicing into the snow, bending his knees and lifting, hurling it off to one side.  He shoveled a strip down to where I was mangling the snow, put his hand on my shoulder and said that I was doing great. He told me we would finish the driveway together and then get some hot chocolate. The cold disappeared, and the weight in my chest lessened, and I swung my shovel into work.

He paid me the dollar.  The kindness was an unspoken bonus.  And lasted a lot longer.

Hope this finds you digging deep,

David

Copyright © 2026 David Smith