Honestly, what says Canada better than a snowplow filling in the end of your driveway moments after you’ve finished clearing it of the latest 25 cm dump?
I can’t possibly imagine what it’s like to be a municipal or township snowplow driver. As an occupation, is there any accumulated burnout that comes from years of being loathed by driveway owners? They say that being a dentist is rough because, well, who honestly likes going to the dentist? It’s like that for the snowplow people, I’m sure.
Sometimes people lose their minds when it comes to the plow, either flinging their shovels at it as it passes by, or literally chasing it down the street brandishing the shovel as an ominous weapon. Getting the finger is a given, and it wouldn’t surprise me at all to discover that snowplow operators get more fingers than anyone else in town. Rookie snowplow drivers probably thought people were waving at them, but an hour into their shift was probably enough for them to figure it out.
Some jurisdictions have taken the novel approach of giving their snowplows pet names, so as to encourage a certain degree of tolerance, even affection, for the mighty plow and its operator. But listen, when I’m done my driveway, against everything God could throw at me, I’m hardly going to feel charitable when Snowbegone Kenobi rolls past with his blade full of snow to sock me in again. Ditto for Edgar Allen Snow as he crawls down the highway at a breath-taking 25 km/hr. Hard to feel the love.
When your front lawn gets absolutely cut to shreds by The Big LePlowski, then it’s No More Mr. Ice Guy for me.
I recently discovered that I wasn’t getting any mail. I was, actually. It’s just the mail guy won’t deliver it because my mailbox is somewhere in that snowbank over there. And guess who put it there? That’s right, Alice Scooper.
Giving Snowprah Winfrey a cute name doesn’t disguise the fact that the snowplow is, on the face of it, the enemy, plain and simple. Others may say that it’s Snow Big Deal, but it is.
I’m convinced the neighbour across the street is in telephone communication with my township operator. I feel that the snowplow guy just lingers up the street, idling and waiting for the call from the neighbour, who loves to watch me hurl obscenities as the plow passes by.
At first they wondered if I might have Tourettes, but now they understand it’s the plow.
That’s the thing about that person we’re giving the finger to. He/She/They are just a someone like the rest of us, doing an important job, providing an essential service. They may attend church, coach ringette, give blood, donate organs, and volunteer at schools.
But I don’t care. I still hate it when the son-of-a-bitch comes by with his big goddamned blade of white crap.
I’ve taken to giving the mail guy the finger too. So what’s next? Innocent passersby? Neighbourhood pets? The senior citizen next door?
Where does it end?
It seems to indicate a need to keep that rage in check, the emotions tamped down. Stay steady. Be mature.
We’ll see.
NEWSMAGRENFREW 