The Art of Shoveling

I was born and raised in Vermont – the great training grounds for shoveling – and spent my youth perfecting both an appreciation and a technique. Under the tutelage of a perfectionist brother, I learned the details and downfalls of clearing driveways, steps, porches, and sidewalks. Even after a 23 year break in California, I’ve not forgotten the lessons.

This weekend Denver and the foothills broke a few records with snowfall. I’m pretty sure it all fell in my backyard, because by Saturday morning I was digging through 42” of champagne powder. Thanks heavens it wasn’t Sierra Cement or that awful, icy, slushy stuff in Vermont that New Yawkers still insist on calling snow. I used to call it hell.

Shoveling snow, I’ve discovered, is a social activity. It’s infinitely more enjoyable to have a partner, neighbor, pet, to help pass the time. It’s a great way to get caught up with neighbors you never see, even neighbors you don’t know. I learned one neighbor was vegetarian for 18 years, another installed spikes on his mountain bike tires so he can get out in even the crappiest weather, yet another still lets his Jack Russell terrier out off-leash and the tiny pooch couldn’t figure out how to get around so much snow in order to get home. And yet another neighbor’s dog, a charming, blue-eyed Australian shepherd, can still dig his way out from his secure dog run and make the rounds.

Living in the mountains is, in itself, a work-out. From dodging hail stones in late summer afternoon thunderstorms to dodging dodgy drivers on Colorado freeways, there’s always something to keep your heart rate up. But there is no better full body, aerobic, out-the-back-door workout than shoveling snow. It engages your arms for digging, legs for bending and walking, torso for twisting and balance, and back for straining. Trust me on that last one.

I’m not a snowmobile enthusiast, not do I like ATVs, dirt bikes, or chain saws. I’m a human-powered purist and when it comes to shoveling snow, snow blowers are cheater’s fodder. I use a big, burly, metal grain shovel with a D-handle, too, not one of those wimpy plastic deals that ends up in the trash after one season.

There are four ways to throw the snow. Like a tennis match, each lob carries a different direction and spindrift. Left hand on handle, right hand choking up on shovel, fling forward, it’s like a return on an odd forward backhand. Reverse that to right hand on handle, left hand choking up on shovel, fling forward, and you’ve got that odd backhand #2. Left hand on handle, right hand choking up on shovel, fling backwards over right shoulder and I’m reminded of the children’s song about your ears hanging low, do they wobble to and fro (can you tie them in a knot, can you tie them in a bow?), do you throw them over your shoulder like a Continental tow…? You see where I’m going with throw #4. But in the end, it’s a ballet, each toss ending with an awkward arabesque. I’d like to see Baryshnikov work a few shovel loads.

You can tell a lot about people by how and what they shovel, if at all. Do they toss it into chaotic, hurried piles? I probably don’t want to see the inside of their homes. Are they considerate of their neighbors, contemplating how the snow piles they create will affect another’s movement? That’s the great distinguisher of their preferred interest in either selfishness or community. Do they seem to have a plan of attack, attending to the geometry of their lot, organizing how, what, and when they shovel into useful constructs? That’s a good mind and, I admit, my brother’s methodology. He would cut the snow in hearty cubes, gracefully lifting the white box to its final destination, a little easier to accomplish with the slabs in Vermont than the fluff of Colorado. Then he’d build the piles at a distance first in order to leave room to fill forward as the volume grew. No surprise he’s been a happy woodworker all his life.

Mostly, though, shoveling snow is a mountain meditation. There might even be room to come up with a new yoga style: snoga. There’s an odd, lumbering meditation to the digging, walking, tossing, asana-like concentration of it all. After all, that’s how I came to imagine this piece.