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It’s been a mostly mellow winter, but the past ten days or so I’ve spent a relatively large amount of time shoveling. Not necessarily a lot of snow at any one shot – four inches here, six inches there – but several trips outside to take care of it.

Shoveling is a worthy thing to gripe about. And I do. It’s cold. It’s usually really early in the pre-dawn hours so that our incredibly steep driveway (nosebleeds are a real risk) is passable before the morning commute. It can be tough, cold work and, once you’re done, the snow plow just comes through and dumps a ton of the crap at the end of the driveway again.

But still…

With the exception perhaps of a freshly mowed yard, is there anything more satisfying that a clean, well shoveled driveway? The crisp, white piles in the yard. The clean, grey driveway. And the razor-sharp edges of snow dividing the two.

A full-load of laundry, folded and put away is a nice accomplishment. Loading the dishwasher is great. I also like a freshly painted room, but you can’t re-paint the living room every time it snows, can you? After only a couple rough winters, and all those paint layers, the room would be so small, you couldn’t sit down to watch “Downton Abbey”.

I was going to make shoveling the driveway a metaphor for various things: finishing a writing project, running a marathon, solving the Rubik’s Cube. (No, I never did. Feel superior,do you?) But, really, I just like having a clean driveway. It makes me happy.

And really, that’s enough.


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