Waiting for the Other Shoe to Fall

Evidently, that phrase started out as the punchline to a joke in which a traveler arrives late at night in a small rooming house and is cautioned not to wake the other guests as he prepares for bed. Very tired, he accidentally allows one of his shoes to fall heavily to the floor, but is more careful with the other and places it quietly on the floor. He is sound asleep a few minutes later when he is awakened by the guest next door pounding on the wall and shouting, "For the love of Pete, drop the other shoe!"

For the last several winters in Wisconsin our cry has been, “For the love of Pete, drop some more snow!” This past weekend was like discovering the errant shoe-dropper is a centipede.

Even before the storm hit, it was forecast as the biggest in 15 years. Friday night it snowed a buttload (technical meteorological term) and the wind blew like a banshee. Scott and I shoveled/snow-blowed his walk and drive Saturday morning. Then we went to my house and shoveled the walk and drive. Since twice as much snow was supposed to be dumped Saturday night as Friday, it seemed easier to shovel Saturday before the Big Dump and do it again Sunday than to simply wait until it all accumulated in one big drift, then be compelled to call the National Guard and road graders if we ever wanted see our driveways again.

Saturday night witnessed blizzard conditions with snow you could HEAR pelting down, accompanied by thunder, lightning, and 35 mph winds. We were going from Scott’s house to mine to check on my dog Bill, and Scott was driving his 4-wheel drive Explorer. A couple miles from Scott’s house, we hit a spot in the road where there was so much snow we couldn't go forward. That was it. We weren't going anywhere, and there was no way to turn around, so Scott started backing. That worked well until we slid into the ditch, and the Explorer would only wallow in the snow with no solid forward or backward movement.

Snowmobiles were buzzing around getting through the hideous conditions effortlessly. It was the first time I ever viewed them as possibly useful machines for transportation as opposed to simply stoopid recreational crap for goobers seeking to claim a Darwin award by dying young and drunk.

In the meantime, it wasn't lookin' good for the home team. We went through the eternity of probably five minutes of fruitless back and forth effort while we considered that we were probably going to be spending the night on the floor of the farmhouse about 1/2 mile back with hope that the snowplow didn't hit the Explorer the next morning. I was imploring every deity that I thought might have an open line. The wheels caught, and we moved out of the ditch. I don’t believe in miracles—I rely on them.

We were SO happy to get back to Scott's place, and I kept remarking on his heroic driving; he kept proclaiming how lucky we were. Fortunately Bill would be able to get in and out his doggie door; but I still didn't sleep well that night worrying about if he got stuck in deep snow when he went out. He's 14 now and struggles with his hind quarters sometimes even on stable ground.

The snowplows must have started their labors at dark-thirty Sunday morning and worked magic. By the time we set out, the roads were in good shape. Whatever those folks are getting paid, it isn’t nearly enough. A short distance up the road from where we'd been stuck, four vehicles almost formed a circle around the road—mostly covered up where they'd apparently gotten stuck the night before. The snowplow appeared to have made one little path down the center of the road between them that was barely wide enough for us to pass through. We got to my house, and Bill was perfectly fine and happy. We brought the snowblower to my place this time—thank GAWD. When I walked up my drive, I initially couldn't walk up my drive. The first order of business was to climb over the ice mountain the snowplow had created as a convenient blockade to my home. Even when I got over that, every step put me in snow past my knees. Thank the stars for tall snow boots. And a man who is a heroic driver and wields a mean snowblower.

This morning there was about another 2-3" of snow on my walk and drive, but this stuff has become relative. I can get in and out of my driveway, and Sandy the mail lady can make it to the mailbox. The snow was still falling when I left for work, and I had no inclination to pick up another snow shovel.

Scott left this morning for a business trip to San Antonio where he will supposedly experience 84 degrees—all of them occurring at the same time even. If I have to hear any complaints about the chilliness of outdoor dining like the last time he was there, the shoe falling will be aimed to inflict pain for such whinging. Although after his white knight performances through The Storm and its aftermath, maybe I'll just smile and say, "There, there. It'll be all right."