Snow on the Sidewalk

It's fucking snowing.

I hate fucking snow.  Growing up in Utah gave one either a syncopantish, nostalgic love of the phenomenon or a bitter hatred gleaned from untold hours with a snow shovel making certain that every scrap would be removed so that you wouldn't have to hear a lecture from your father (who, by the way, was safely ensconced inside an overheated house, reading the newspaper and smoking camel studs) concerning the importance of hard work.

Who used to really piss me off were my sisters.  They were effing brilliant in their battle plan of grooming Dad's good graces.  Usually, after I had cleared the large areas (big patio, little patio, right sidewalk, and driveway approach) and was getting to the finale of the little left sidewalk, they would quickly don their coats, come out grab the shovel from my hand, move no more than two shovel-loads and then scamper back, rosy cheeked to garner their deserved praise.

I would finish the job, come inside and, depending on my attention to detail either get an affirmative grunt from my father or the aforementioned lecture on work ethic.  Mom would squawk at my clearly established inability to knock all the snow off my boots, but would hand me a cup of coffee with a lot of sugar and cream and a tiny shot of whiskey.

Memories serve well, they bring back the shadows of things that are long lost, they allow you continuity and identity. While I cherish the homely memories, I still fucking hate snow