Sunday, March 09, 2014


Come melt season, I am my father's daughter. In the Offspring's castoff rubber boots and ratty hounds-tooth jacket, I take up the ice shovel.

A keen eye is required, and a strategic understanding of the ice-pavement-air-water interface. I chip where the ice-face has lifted imperceptibly from sidewalk. I scrape where the frost-sheath has fragmented into crystalline skin. I crack the loosening grip of the glacier's edge with one well-placed smack of the shovel after another. 

You have to know when the ice is ripe for destruction.

And when I start shaping carefully plotted trenches into the remaining snowbanks, noting sun angles and flow patterns, I know I am a product of my genes.


SkylersDad said...

I remember those days from growing up in the mountains, but now that I am down in Denver metro area it tends to go away on its own.

Barbara Bruederlin said...

If you ever want to keep your ice chiselling/drainage digging skills sharp, you are welcome to come here to practice, Chris.

Eugene Knapik said...

I'll take one big melt and no ice-smashing thanks

Barbara Bruederlin said...

Up here in the land of mountain runoff, we prefer a long slow melt, Eugene. We do not want a repeat of last year!