Frazzled and ragged after round of snowplow tag

Ever had one of those days when everything seems to conspire against you? I had one last week right after that freezing rain hit.

The ice wasn’t too bad, except on the driveway, which was turned into an ice rink. I used some old kitty litter to sprinkle on the compacted snow that had become an ice-coated mess. But that wasn’t the problem. No, that was the least of my concerns.

It was the diesel roar of the grader with a plow attachment coming around the corner that got my full attention. I stood there in the front window, watching the huge yellow-and-black Erector Set on wheels dig its blade into the snowbank and move forward, dragging a large section of snow right across my driveway. We were walled in behind a 3-foot-high berm of snow and snow chunks the size of my recliner. I calmly waited for the plow to return to take it out. It did return for another pass, but only made the berm slightly taller.

I stood there quietly fuming. Everyone else was saying not to worry, he will come back and take it out; just wait, you’ll see. So I waited.

And waited.

He never came back, so I grabbed my gear and suited up. It was warm (thankfully), a virtual heat wave of over 34 degrees. Just my wool shirt over my pullover, wool cap and gloves were needed. I stomped out grumbling, found my shovel and blue snow shovel/plow thing and walked out to the offending berm. Grumbling some more, I attacked it with an angry vigor.

In 15 minutes I had removed it. The menace was gone, hacked up and scooped away. The reflective snow markers were found and placed back where they belonged. I looked over to my neighbor’s driveway and took out his much smaller berm.

James came out and said, “Hey you don’t have to do that.”

I replied, “Heck, you have done mine with that toy you got so many times. I have to get yours at least once or twice.”

We both laughed. I looked at the job I had done, pleased with myself and tired, too. Doing this with a bad ticker is risky. I had grabbed my tools and turned to go back to my home when I heard the all-too-familiar roar of a diesel engine.

It was a second grader, smaller than the first. The driver waved to me as I crossed back, dragging my shovels down the driveway. The family was waving to me. I waved back, then turned around just in time to see the cursed thing plow yet another berm across my driveway. This time it was twice as tall with even bigger chunks in it. My markers were gone, too.

All that work and sweat for nothing. Arrgghhh! I dropped my head, threw up my arms and stalked back indoors.

By then all I wanted to do was pull my hair out. There was silence inside. Suddenly, everyone became very interested in their puzzles or newspaper. Not even the cats wanted to get near me.

James called on the phone: “Hey, man, let’s wait until the snow plow goat rope is over and we will take it on with my ATV. I’m going into town right now and when I get back — heh, heh, heh — we will bust that berm down.”

I laughed and told him in fluent GI what I thought of them. Being a fellow veteran (Marines, Vietnam War) James got a kick out it.

“Yeah, I’m going for some lunch,” I said.

I waited in front of the window and yet another plow showed up. This one was different. It had the biggest, blackest bucket on it I have ever seen. It could have scooped up my car with ease. We were cheering, but all it did was pull the offending berm out into the road, then went down the road. The first plow was right behind it, and did it again! Now it was just a huge wall of dirty snow.

I was bouncing up and down yelling. I threw up my hands in disgust and ate my lunch, boiling.

But Mr. Bucket was to return a half-hour later. We heard it come. We gathered at the windows, barely breathing, as that large yellow-and-black rig lowered that big, black bucket in front of the berm. He took that huge bucket and pushed the snowy mess right over and away.

We were free! I was happy, the cats were happy, my family was happy. We cheered with gusto. But every time one of those three plows would go down the road I was there in the window like a shot. No new berms (thankfully) appeared. Everybody laughed at my paranoia.

When James returned I went out and told him what happened and about Mr Bucket. Turns out he knew about that rig.

“How did you know about it?” I asked, puzzled.

He looked at me from his grizzled face with a twinkle in his eyes. “Well, I went into a ditch trying to avoid the other ones just down the street, and that big, black bucket rig towed me out!”

We had a good laugh and went back to our homes.

Uh oh, I can hear the roar of a big diesel engine …

Wasilla resident Daniel D. Grota retired from the U.S. Army after more than 21 years of service.