What's Your Snow Removal Style?

Given Jack Frost's pretty much given half the U.S. the snow equivalent of in-school bullying so far this January, and my hands are still frozen in the shoveling position (makes it seriously hard to type, let me tell ya), I was thinking a lot lately about neighborhood snow removal.

A look down the block shows everyone handles this winter chore in their own unique way. And I think if we were to classify these techniques, they might go something like this:

• The Winter Warrior. This is the neighbor who finds a single snowflake on their sidewalk to be a personal affront to civilization as we know it. The moment so much as one flurry dares to invade their territory, they are out there with shovels, plows, salt, and an elite troupe of anti-snow ninjas to remove the offending bit of crystallized H2O and return the world to how it once was. The Winter Warrior may shovel at least 17 times for a single snowfall. This person also likely aligns each bath towel inside the house so they hang of equal length on the towel rack.

• The Minimalist. This is the person who has decided to leverage the Obligatory Shoveling Loophole. They shovel a one-shovel-width path from their home to their car. If truly serious about the shoveling, they might extend the path to 50% of the sidewalk, crafting an elaborate illusion of safety and seasonal effectiveness. As a child, this was probably the kid who took two bites of dinner and pushed the rest around on his plate to fool Mom.

• The 'More Power' Enthusiast. This is the neighbor who was drooling all the way back in August with shiny thoughts of using the discount six-speed snowblower he just bought. At the first signs of snow, he is there, ready. Blowing out his drive, his back yard, his sidewalk, your sidewalk, the sidewalk of everybody on the block, people the next town over...  Eventually he finds himself at the equator, overdressed, sweating, confused and out of gas. He is very popular among his neighbors. By end of winter, he will have taken on a benevolent God-like reputation.

• The Guilt Shoveler. This person is always one of the last people to shovel out after a snow storm. They check the status of other neighbors' properties from the warmth of their homes, while cupping a mug of cocoa, and wearing fuzzy slippers. They are waiting for someone else to set the shoveling precedent. They need this time to rationalize why they must be ripped from the comfort of flannel and chocolate when this white stuff from the sky will only likely come back again for round two. Only the fear that the other neighbors will call them Lazy McNoShovel gets them from their cocoon.

• The Free Spirit. The inhabitants of the house on the block that has never, ever shoveled any part of their walkway or drive. The U.S Postal Service knows this and every year simply keeps their mail to be delivered in the safety of Spring. No amount of inter-neighborhood peer pressure will encourage these homeowners to address the outdoor world of white. These folks are typically the ones who don't rake leaves, or take advantage of the benefits of public sanitation service.

Me, I border on being the Guilt Shoveler. But I have a Winter Warrior on one side of me. I get guilted a little early on in the Snow Removal Process, since he and his Shoveling Ninjas sweep in and out several times before the last flake of the storm has dropped.

There can be six feet of snow everywhere else on the street and then his sidewalk is completely bare and shining with happy salt crystals.

It just ain't right.

So tell me-- what's your snow removal style? Do you live next to a Winter Warrior, 'More Power' Enthusiast, or the Free Spirit?

The Shoveling Gnomes

I swear it wasn't done when I went to bed.

I recall specifically lookin' out my front door, without any of that that "doo-doo-doo" enthusiasm John Fogerty expressed back at his house in the 60s. And with 100% fewer giants doing cartwheels, too...

Even though I was pretty tired.

But there was absolutely nothing to sing about, as far as I was concerned. The snow had piled up a good eight inches in no time, creating an image of idyllic postcard winter. Because y'know, those Currier and Ives landscape people clearly had snowblowers. What else could explain how they could summon up so much seasonal appreciation to paint under these sorts of conditions?

So I went to bed. And when I got up in the morning and faced the tundra again with a hot cup of java, that's when I saw it.

My walk, and the first three stairs of my house, had been shoveled.

There was also a path carved so I could get into my car.

"Again?"

Yes, this was the third time this had happened.

The first time, I had already shoveled, but overnight a mysterious, convenient path had been dug to my car that I didn't recall doing.

The second time, someone beat me to shoveling my front walk in its entirety, again somewhere between 10pm and 5am.

And now... this time, the walk was shoveled, along with three steps to the house.

I would say it was my neighbors, but initial dealings with one of them in particular hadn't proved to be overly... Mr. Rogersy. So unless it was guilt-ridden, Apology Shoveling, it just didn't seem likely.

And no one has come ringing my doorbell asking for money, saying if I don't pay up they'll put it all back.

So the only possible rational explanation is that I have Shoveling Gnomes.

I mean, sure, as kids we all heard the tales. Magical elfin people who'd repair massive amounts of shoes overnight. Or spin straw into gold. Or fold your laundry and stack it in your underwear drawer.

(Oh, wait, no, that last one is sometimes called "Mom.")

But the other two. Those. They count. So who's to say these magic-packed little people aren't expanding their operations to shovel snow?

What happens to lawn gnomes in winter, anyway? Do we really believe they're just under two feet of snow sleeping it off for six months?

No. They make themselves useful. Tidy up the place. And we have evidence that they're attracted to colder, snowier climes. I mean, who hasn't heard of Gnome, Alaska?

Okay, yes, I know that's spelled differently. But I think that's just a diversionary tactic used by real estate agents to strengthen the market values.

So, as winter slowly melts into spring, I'm looking to see what the future brings. Perhaps they'll turn their hands to gardening this year, and I'll find annuals where none were planted.

Maybe I'll find the barbeque polished up for a fresh season of grilling.

Or maybe I'll just find a ton of teeny-tiny beer bottles tossed under one of my shrubs, along with a pink plastic flamingo wearing a saddle.

Work hard, play hard, you know.

There's no place like gnome.
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Variations on the Pittsburgh Chair Law

My town, Pittsburgh, dances to the beat of its own stadium organist.

For instance, the 'Burgh believes there's nothing odd about tucking french fries inside your sandwich-- and while you're add it, slap a little cole slaw in there, too.

It believes that anybody making a left turn has a God-given right to go first, nevermind those pesky traffic laws or that giant truck barreling down on you head-on.

It stands for helping stranded motorists just because it's the right thing to do. It believes in never-ending potential for Steelers Superbowl stardom even if half the players are in full-body casts.

And it believes that once you dig your parking space out, like astronauts on a moon landing, you are permitted to symbolically claim it as your own.

And this can only be done properly by putting a chair in it.

Now, these chairs may look like ordinary chairs, but the moment they step a leg outside, they gain magical properties. That chair instantly stakes your claim. It renders that chair unmovable by foreign entities under penalty of instant epidermal liquification or a good punch in the snoot.

For Snowapolooza 2010, however, I'm noticing some creative variations on the Pittsburgh Chair Law.

I myself have never taken advantage of the Chair Law until this year. But after spending an hour digging out the space in front of my house-- resulting in my need to buy stock in a name brand Ibuprofin manufacturing company-- I was friggin' well going to make sure that spot was waiting for me at the end of a hard day.

But alas! I had no moisture-resistant chair available to sacrifice to Mother Nature! So, in an irreverent twist on tradition, I went for the Tall Kelly Green Plastic Recycling Bin.

My next door neighbors, I noticed, have selected a Homebound Resident Toilet Chair as their snowtime statement-- an interesting spin on the usual chair motif.

I have spied Tailgating Cupholder Chairs... Reappropriated Dairy Milk Crates in Leaning Tower of Pisa-like formations... and my new favorite: a stack of colorful desk "inboxes," a rainbow of hope in a tundra of white endlessness.

Come spring, these items will once again return to their original functions. Back again to the home office, the den, the spot cradling the bottom of Great-Uncle Alfie.

Or perhaps they'll end up curbside on bulk trash day. Having served their purpose for one cold, crystalline season. Having enjoyed a few months elevated as the one object that guaranteed a small moment of reprieve, of ease, in the relentless winter struggle of Man Versus Street Parking.

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Question of the day: Does your city have any odd unspoken rules visitors find confusing or funny?
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