Washoe Valley, Nevada, is known as a wind tunnel. Drivers passing through are often stopped because of the gales from the west that scream down the Sierra mountains.
From time to time, the wind drops an abundance of snow at my door, like a shining gift from the dark clouds above. While Reno and Carson City receive inches of snow, I’m blessed with two feet or more. The wind is smart. She knows where my driveway is located.
I’m an old-fashioned guy. No fancy snow blower for me. I possess several varieties of snow shovels to accommodate the depth and moisture content of the white stuff.
I absolutely love to shovel the snow. My four white Swiss shepherds romp all around me as I start to make a path. I take frequent hot chocolate breaks. Little by little, a wide strip of blacktop is uncovered.
Shoveling is one of two work details where I immediately receive a sense of accomplishment (the other is ironing). I feel pretty darn good when I see the proof of my labor.
I’m looking out my window facing west. Dark clouds are moving fast over the mountain range. The wind is stirring up once more.
Darn it. I’m out of hot chocolate.