The date was January 14, 2006 and I was half sitting, half laying in an overstuffed recliner, sipping on hot chocolate and watching words go by on large, crackly pages with contented glee. I was wearing a worthless v-neck t-shirt, pajama pants, and slipper boots that could only be deemed “borderline” heterosexual; and that was after I cut off the little fuzzy balls that dangled from the ankles. The snow fell outside in thick sheets, crushing itself into the ground and creating a mass like some crazed pileup for a fumbled ball on the goal line, but I was in ignorant bliss as I dove into a fat paperback and slowly wandered through East Farthing towards Buckland.

     Of course, as any right-minded young man or woman will often tell you but never admit to themselves, moments like these are as fleeting as those when you believe a pretty girl makes eye contact with you; you want that moment back, but if you try too hard to get it back, you end up looking desperate. It was precisely when I was doing a wonderful job of not thinking about said fleetingness of said moments that my mother peeked around the corner, wielding a mug of coffee like a scepter of judgment.

“You know, dad’s not going to be able to get in the driveway when he gets home from work.”

Something dark clunked into place in my chest and I wept like a grieving mother.

In order to understand my seemingly lugubrious reaction, you must first understand this; one does not simply clear my driveway. Its white vastness is guarded by impassable mountains of ice. There is an evil there that does not sleep. Not one speck of snow can be left for a tire to crush underneath, for the eyes of my mother are ever watchful. It is a barren wasteland riddled with ice, cutting wind and ruthless cold. The very air you breathe hurts, and makes your nose hairs stick together.

I looked at my mother with reproach. “Not with ten thousand men could you do this!”

She raised her eyebrows and gave me a look usually reserved only for the clinically insane and the extremely literate. I wavered under her stare and forlornly looked back at my book.

“It is folly,” I mumbled before beginning the painful and slow process of extracting myself from the chair. My mother disappeared back around the corner, likely to refill her mug.

“If anyone asks, I don’t know you,” she called from the kitchen.

Fifteen minutes later I stood outside, looking mournfully at the horrible black and red snow blower that was supposed to be my companion and protector on this harrowing journey. Not only could it remove snow at a maniacal rate and guide me through the frozen wastes, it also had a shield that protected me from the worst of the wind and (I assume) Saruman’s spies. But this was a fickle helper; I had no clue as to how to start it. There was a cord which I had seen my father pull in order to make it start, but there was also an incomprehensible cacophony of buttons, switches and levers covering the confounded machinery. I tried every combination of these known to man, and a good few I discovered myself. Still, the snow blower remained silent and mocking. I glared at the black and white logo, proclaiming the name HOLLUM in large letters across the side. His mother was probably a whore.

After about thirty minutes of me standing in the cold, losing staring match after staring match with the most devious of machineries, my mother came down with a phone. It was my grandfather, who would hopefully come to my rescue. With his aid, I was able to discover a few new senseless combinations of lever moving and button pushing, but the snow blower simply laughed at our efforts. It knew I needed it, that only it knew the secret way through the insane labyrinth that was my driveway. After hanging up with my grandfather and losing another staring match, I kicked the hateful thing, not so much out of anger but more because I felt that that was what my father would have done. I flicked more switches. I pushed more buttons. I pulled the starter cord until my arm ached, and tried the electric starter until my ears couldn’t take any more. As I said, one does not simply clear my driveway. Ever.

At this point, my mother came down again with the phone and this time it was my father. My father. The final nail was hammered into the coffin, burying my pride. More switches were sadly flipped, buttons apathetically hammered, and doohickeys cried over. Eventually, and with an amount of sympathy that sliced straight into my hero-worshiping heart, he concluded that I should go inside, and he would clear the driveway when he got home. He could do at night what I could not do during the day. I shouldn’t worry about it. I was not nearly the famed warrior that he was. I thanked him for the newfound shame and hung up.

I kicked the snow blower again. I cursed Hollum and his name. I hoped he’d been shunned by his family for creating such an accursed item. I hoped my father would not be able to get the machine working either, and my entire family would be trapped in a frozen cocoon for at least six days, just to spare my wounded pride. In that moment, an idea suddenly grew in my head.

As snow flew into my face like millions of howling Crebain, I pondered doing the dumbest, most hardheaded thing I had ever done. I pondered just long enough for my mother to yell from the window that I should probably come inside before picking up a bright purple shovel and slamming my will against that of Mother Nature.

The snow was chest deep at the shallowest point, and stretched over the branches of towering trees at the deepest. Every shovelful of snow I threw over my shoulder was replaced by ten more as flakes tore across the winter air. No sound could be heard, save for the icy wind cutting through my clothes and across my face. It was impossible to even discern where exactly my driveway was, which forced me to run on sheer instinct as I tirelessly hauled ton after ton of white powder out of the path that my father would eventually need to take.

I worked for endless hours, watching snow pile around me as I futilely dug into the infinite white. I watched the sun rise and fall and rise again. I felt my heart break and a beard spill down my chest as years progressed. Wars were fought, lives were taken and created, generations came and went, and still my father had not come home for the night. And still, no sound came but the endless wind, scraping the skin off my face and leaving me raw and bleeding. Eventually, after centuries of suffering and toil, I collapsed in the snow and hopelessly waited to die.

It was then, in the most desperate moment I have ever experienced, the voice of an angel rose over the vast snow banks. A faint, divine song sifted through the snow to find my lifeless body and make my heart beat again, breathing life into my ears with a heavenly chorus.

I see you driving ‘round town with the girl I love,
And I’m like, “&#%@ you!”
I guess the change in my pocket wasn’t enough,
I’m like, “@&%* you! And !@#% her too!”

The music floated to a place in my heart and settled there, bringing me back from the throes of death. I looked up to see an ancient Pinto clunking and clanking down the road, blaring music so loudly that it actually forced snowflakes away from it in time with the bass line. The car pulled up next to my grave and stopped. Out leaned the brown, circular head of my friend Sam. The bottom half of his face was all teeth. That’s how he smiled, all the time.

“Looks like you could use a little help!”

I managed to stand, and looked at the mountains of snow still lying in my driveway. I turned back to Sam and shrugged, too proud to directly state my obvious predicament.

“The snow blower won’t work.”

“The old Hollum? That piece of &^#*, of course not! If there’s one thing I’ve learned Neil, it’s never trust a ##%&in’ Hollum.”

Sam had learned a lot of one things over his life, and spend every day doling them back out the same way he had learned them: one at a time. He left his car in the road and, grinning the whole time, clapped me on the shoulder and picked up another shovel.

And suddenly, the snow wasn’t as driving anymore. It came down in manageable sprinkles, rather than the white waves of death I had experienced before. We moved snow with careless ease, and in my victorious glory I wondered why my dad even thought he needed the old Hollum. We fought with brave care against an enemy that seemed to know it was beat, whimpering in exhaustion as the snow gave up completely. We sang in unison as we shoveled, overpowering the evil winds until they surrendered into a gentle breeze so calm it could have been blown in the summer.  In what seemed like mere minutes, the driveway was not only passable, but smooth and even germ-free. It was an effortless victory, a rout over the forces of evil, a deed worthy of tales and songs. Through those numb, young minutes, I could not stop smiling.

When Sam finally put the shovel down, retiring from his life of nature-vanquishing, I hugged him hard and thanked him for all that he had done, especially for the music. He smiled with his whole body and clapped my shoulder again before getting back in his car. We said that we loved each other and he waved goodbye with a big, brown hand.

I went inside with the bottom half of my face covered in snot and a smile. I quickly changed into dry, warm clothing and put another mug of hot chocolate on the stove. When it was scalding to the point of perfection, I sank back into my overstuffed chair and breathed in the thick steam, letting it slow my heartbeat to a happy crawl. I brushed my fingers across yellowing pages, making a therapeutic rustle as I settled into my mind and ambled at an easy pace through Buckland.

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