by Mark Maine

Created on: January 10, 2009   Last Updated: January 14, 2009

There is nothing that can compare to the peace and solitude of an evening snowfall in New England. Even the busy streets of Boston become serene as the concrete and steel become a frozen paradise and the harsh sounds of commerce are muffled by the fresh falling snow. There is a noticeable change that transforms the landscape, not just the beautiful white accents that now enhance the scenery. No the change is not one dimensional as to only be seen by the naked eye. There is more to it, a peaceful calm settles over the surroundings and it appears to emanate from everyone and everything around.

A cynical mind will grumble at the added workload that Mother Nature has just dropped on our doorstep. But for most the natural aura and beauty seems to overtake the cynicism, making the work enjoyable and actually a welcomed relaxing change to the often mundane routine of life. The scant few who cannot overcome their self pity are fortunately from time to time silenced by the sound of the plow trucks rumbling by, which momentarily spares those nearby the task of having to listen to them complaining.

When I am out shoveling snow during times like this, listening to the sounds of the neighbor's grumbling and the frigid air howling through the trees, my mind goes back to fonder days when I was young helping clean up the snow. I grew up in a little town in the rolling hills of New Hampshire, and I can think of no better place on this earth for a boy to grow up. My grandparents lived right next door and we would plow and shovel them out too when the storms came. The driveways combined were close to a quarter of a mile and there was a lot of work that needed to be done between the two yards.
We needed to shovel paths to the front doors, the backdoors, the duck house, the chicken house, the oil tank, the garages, the bird feeders, the barn, the mailboxes, a path to the path, and a path to get to the snow so that we could shovel a path to go shovel it. I look back and smile thinking about following my Father and riding in the ballast box on the tractor carrying an old flat steel snow shovel that was handed down from my Great Grandfather. Yes, a traditional family heirloom for those who are native to New England!

I loved those winter nights when the wind was howling and the snow was flying. I can remember times that I was out shoveling with the wind blowing so hard that the snow appeared to be falling almost sideways. Through the roar of the storm I could just make out the faint sound

• 1
• 2
• Next Page >>