“Oh my God,” I yelled, peering out the window. “Daddy’s had a heart attack. Wait here.”

I ran down the freshly paved path to the far end of my property where Ricky was lying face up, arms splayed, snow shovel at his side.

“What are you doing out here in pajamas?” he asked. “You’re going to get sick?”

“What the hell are you doing lying on the ground? I thought you had a heart attack.”

Soaked through his wool hat and down jacket, he looked like he’d been to a sweat lodge, not shoveling.

“I got tired. I’m taking a rest,” he added, laughing.

“Not funny.”

Marching back up the path I said to myself that’s it, next year we’re hiring a professional plowing service.

We live on a mountain precipice 500 feet above sea level. There are times when Nyack gets rain and we, high above it, get snow. Our property is a plowing nightmare. You need to walk roughly 40 feet along a stone path to get from our front door to the edge of the driveway. The driveway slopes westward, and precipitously downward. Last year we finally had it graded because it was nearly impossible to get cars out after a storm.

Our first winter here, a mortgage broker from the city came to our house (ah the good old days) to do a re-finance. It had snowed the day before. He walked up the path gingerly, wearing his pinstripe suit and laced-up brown leather shoes. “Welcome to the country,” we said. He thought it looked so charming — until he tried to get his car out of the driveway. After spinning his wheels, he and Ricky spent an hour digging him out.

“Let’s hire a professional plow company next year,” I’d said. “Don’t be ridiculous.” Ricky answered. “We’re rugged individualists. That’s why we live on this mountain.”

Winters two through four were pretty much the same. Not a terrible amount of snow, which made the job of plowing manageable

But 2010 was the year of the snow storm. By mid-February, I’d lost track of the inch/foot total.

We were woken at 4:40 am by a deafening scraping sound. Ricky flew out of bed and pulls up the shade. “Will you look at that?” he said, observing the McMansion across the street. “He’s got a plow service that comes in the middle of the night.”

At 5:30, more scraping. This time from the guy next to the McMansion, who has his own plow. Back and forth he goes, clearing snow, spitting gravel into the road.

By dawn, bzzzzzzzzz. Our neighbor who loves his power toys was blowing the snow.

“Hasn’t anybody around here heard of a shovel?” my husband grunts, unwilling to admit he has snow-removal envy.

A few weeks ago, I was home alone. Our path and driveway were an icy mess again from the most recent storm. Ricky had done a bit of plowing but I was afraid to go outside, let alone move the car. Looking out the window, I saw two men in sweatshirts carrying shovels over their shoulders. Either I was having a religious experience or this was my lucky day.

I ran out and asked if I could hire them to dig us out.

“Okay,” one said. “Forty dollar.”

I would have given him $50.

When Ricky came home that night he gave me a giant hug.

“Wow, sweatheart, thanks.”

“Happy Valentine’s Day,” I crowed.

Then the big one hit. 24 inches fell over 48 hours. It was paradise to behold. Julia said, “Mommy, it looks like the Nutcracker ballet out there,” and it did.

The next morning, Ricky started plowing the path. It was like watching someone try to empty the ocean with a spoon. I left Julia behind to finish the snowman we were building and trudged through waist-deep snow to the top of our driveway. I flagged down a guy with a plow on his car and offered to pay him.

He pulled into the driveway, and when he tried to maneuver the shovel with the car, his wheels spun. He was stuck. He wasn’t going anywhere, and neither was the snow. For the next hour Ricky and he shoveled out his car – which only made a small dent of snow clearing at the end of the driveway.

That night Ricky soaked in the tub, complaining how much his knee hurt.

The next day I called someone who sent two guys to shovel us out. They did a stellar job.

“So are you ready to get a professional service next year?” I asked Ricky.

“Why don’t we get a heated driveway,” he suggested, a clearly reasonable alternative to my preposterous suggestion.




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TINA TRASTER writes the 'Burb Appeal' column for The New York Post and "The Great Divide" blog for the Huffington Post. She is a city girl who has turned her efforts to social commentary on life in a NY-metro area suburb. She is not afraid to "out" bad actors, annoy neighbors, take on bumbling town officials or challenge anyone who messes with her bliss. She lives with her husband, young daugther and four cats in an 1850s reclaimed farmhouse on a beautiful mountain precipice.

Traster is at work on a memoir called Burb Appeal.

You can reach her via email at [email protected]

6 responses to “Farewell Winter”

  1. Anon says:

    A friend of mine (at least I think he is – haven’t really spoken to him much in a few years) lived in the Rockies, just about at treeline. Somewhere around ’98 or ’99, there was a blizzard that lasted somewhere in the neighborhood of four days, leaving eight feet of snow on the roads that led to his house. Thank God it started while he was in town at work and he’d stayed at his then-girlfriend’s house. Also good that he didn’t have any pets – it took days to dig through.

    You’ve, um…. got some food put back in the panty, right? Just in case? Like, two or three weeks’ worth at least? Just sayin’….

  2. Irene Zion says:


    We had 25 years of living in either Iowa City, Iowa or Champaign, Illinois.
    Just reading your story is making me shiver and quake.
    I never, ever want to be cold again.
    Hire a guy.
    It’s worth every penny.

  3. Lorna says:

    Oh, no thank you to the snow. I would rather stay here in the desert and shivel up like a prune. I hope your husband wises up and hires the plow guys soon.

  4. Alison Aucoin says:

    I shoveled snow for the first time this year and sweet jesus, I never want to again. Second time we needed it I happily compensated a highly motivated homeless guy. Waist deep? Bless your hearts!

  5. Simon Smithson says:

    Sn… ow?

    There’s something about dusting off your hands in any given situation and saying ’86 this noise, we’re handballing this whole mess to the professionals.’

  6. Joe Daly says:

    Eek! Hellacious flashbacks of growing up in Central Mass. I was the kid with the snowblower whom everyone would try to flag down as I went from house to house. I just wanted to get the hell inside and warm up, so I’d pretend like I didn’t see them waving at me.

    My dad’s now 93 and he still tries to shovel his own driveway. And he calls me a “kook” for moving to California…

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