Let it snow --- in Iowa

The sun transformed an eight-inch snow blanket into a lunar landscape of slush; and that's the way it remained for the next two weeks, frozen into enormous, tire busting ruts.

By Mike Dixon

Special to The Capital-Journal

You just have to admire the guile of a guy who got a couple of kids to take the snow from his driveway home with them to build a snow fort in their own yard.

It was one of those winter days when the gray sky was shrunken down like a frosty film over frozen chicken, and I felt like the chicken. I was standing out on my deeply drifted driveway with a snow shovel in my hands while bits of frozen pumice blew down my neck and up my pant legs.

I hate shoveling snow, always have. I grew up in a home with a coarsely graveled driveway. Under the circumstances, snow removal was difficult if not, as my father wisely maintained, utterly impossible. Add to this the fact that snow seldom lasts a week in eastern Kansas anyway, and you can see how I gravitated toward the "let it melt" school.

My wife, on the other hand, was raised in Iowa, where snow removal is considered part of a man's marriage vows. In Iowa, the women expect their spouses to remove any flake that falls on concrete with sudden urgency. In Iowa, one's very rectitude is judged by his enthusiasm for emulating frozen poultry. While some folks like a good tan, Iowans admire a good freezer burn. Iowans maintain their rectitude the same way they keep their giblets.

I had already visited the driveway scenario twice that winter. The first time it snowed, I did the right thing and shoveled. The next day, a freezing rain laid down a quarter inch of ice so perfect you could have played hockey on it. A good snow cover was the only thing that could have prevented it.

The next time it snowed, I checked the newspaper before my wife could say anything; and I determined that it was only going to be cold for one more day. After that, the forecast promised, it would be balmy enough to melt any snow cover.

I held my ground against the glowering, and it did warm up the next day. The sun transformed an eight-inch snow blanket into a lunar landscape of slush; and that's the way it remained for the next two weeks, frozen into enormous, tire busting ruts.

Anyway, I was standing there envying the spotless drive of my neighbor across the street. After getting the kids to take his snow, the guy became a kind of local legend, a genius of snow removal.

While I stood there chafing, my neighbor's wife came out of her house with a broom. Stiffly, I made my way over to her to ask some questions.

"So how do you like the weather?" I began.

"I hear we're getting another six inches tonight," she said cheerfully.

"I suppose those kids came and hauled off your snow again this morning," I probed.

"Why no, not this time," she said. "I'm really put out with them. They never sweep up when they're done, so this morning I came out and did it myself. I'm going to sweep it one more time to make sure it's perfect before my husband gets home."

"So tell me," I inquired, "how did your husband get them to take your snow in the first place?"

"Oh, he just offered it to them," she said. "Say, why don't you offer them yours? I'm sure they'll be back first thing in the morning while the new snow is still fresh."

So early the next morning, with six more inches of snow on the ground, I waded out into a blizzard to wait for the children. Presently they came along, and I waved them down.

"Hey kid," I said to the oldest one. "What's your name, and what's with taking the snow from other people's driveways?"

"My name is Bobby," he said. "My brother and I like to use driveway snow to make our snow forts, 'cause it's easier to work with. Our folks are from Iowa, and our dad never lets the snow get deep enough on our own driveway, so we get snow from other folks."

"Well you can have mine," I said. "How would you like that?"

"Are you from Iowa?" he asked.

"Why no," I said, "But my wife is. Is that good enough?"

"Sorry, mister," said the kid, "our mom says we can't take snow from anyone from Iowa; something about 'rectitude,' whatever that is. Anyhow, since your wife's from Iowa, you'll have to do your own."

Mike Dixon of Topeka is an occasional contributor to At Home.

Copyright 2001
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