Plow

Warning: Could be deemed as PG-13+ material!

Ah, the old double entendre. A word that in a straight forward manner means one thing but then alternately takes on a more risqué meaning, much to the delight of 12-year-old boys everywhere. I can see them now, huddled together in the schoolyard snickering to each other as they say, “hee hee, she said “plow.”

My dear friend, James, states that boys are suddenly faced with arrested development of a sexual nature when they hit the seventh grade. Oh, they can go on to become intellectually astute and worldly and all that jazz, but when it comes to girls, they can’t get past the maturity of a thirteen-year-old. I don’t know if this is true but, I guess when it comes down to it, I cannot think of a single boy I’ve dated who has progressed past this chronological milestone. Oh wait! My first spouse is an excellent example. He never talked about sex at all, which I’m not sure if that is better than a relationship with a perpetual 13-year-old who jumps up and down at the sight of boobies.

In order to maintain my PG-13 rating I’ll stop with this. I mean, I just wrote “boobies” for crying out loud. This can only go one way from here.

So, let’s talk about the more straight forward meaning of plow. Growing up in Ohio I experienced snow once in a while, most notably the Blizzard of ’78. I was nine at the time. We were without power for several days but luckily we had a fireplace, loads of sleeping bags, and a cribbage board to see us through. This was an important phase of my life because I realized that toilet paper waved over the flame of a candle ignites and burns rather rapidly. It was one of the scarier moments of my life, not because I was afraid of catching on fire but I knew my mom would kill me if she ever found out that I singed the rug behind the toilet in the back bathroom. As far as I know, she never discovered my secret. Once the power came back on and the plows came out, our lives could carry on. I remember that the first thing on TV when the power came back on was the Mary Tyler Moore show. I’ve loved her ever since.

Somewhere along the way I developed a severe fondness for the white stuff called snow. After my set-back with thyroid cancer in 1993 I decided to head west to spend a single ski season in what I thought was the most beautiful place on earth: Keystone, Colorado. My single ski season turned into eight years of mostly bliss. One day while I was at work the snow started dumping. We got several feet within a couple of hours. When my shift was over I got in my little Ford Escort with studded tires to start my seven-mile journey home. At this particular time in Summit County I lived up in Wildernest, which is a fairly steep drive up the base of Buffalo Mountain. I lived near the top of the developed portion of the mountain. As I crept through the deserted streets of Wildernest I became more and more concerned that my sweet little Escort just wasn’t going to make it. I kept repeating words of encouragement to my Escort, asking – no, pleading – for her to make it just a few more blocks. But then, she stopped. There was no going forward. No going backward. I was smack in the middle of the street. I sat in my Escort not knowing what to do. Just before the mounting snow entirely covered my windshield I saw a snow plow round the corner and head in the opposite direction. I bolted out of my car and started waving my arms like a maniac. I had my stupid little work flats on, which had minimal traction. It was much like Fred Flintstone trying to find his footing before taking off in a run. I finally caught the driver’s attention and motioned back towards my car. He turned around and started heading my way. Whew!

Unfortunately, I had to leave my car in the middle of the street but the nice plow driver gave me a ride home. As I was getting out of the truck and was nearly knee-deep in the new fallen snow, I looked up at my hero and said “I just can’t keep up with how fast it’s coming.”

And thinking back on it all I’m quite confident he said to his 13-year-old self, “That’s what she said.”

YIKES! I almost forgot to thank Nancy VonMinden for today’s word choice. THANKS, NANCY! I’ve known Nancy for about six years. She was Madeline’s preschool teacher but, thankfully, our relationship continued to grow over the years. Nancy is one of the most REAL people I know. She LOVES life! It’s just not possible to be in a bad mood when you’re around her. I love how she is passionate about her beliefs but never judges anyone if they don’t agree with her. She is intelligent. She is funny. She is infectious. She is giving. She does a mean monkey impersonation. And she loves me back. How cool is that? You’re the cat’s pajamas, Nancy. I love you lots.