We
had ourselves a charming little storm over the weekend. Saturday?
Rain. All day. Warm-ish temperatures that made the snowpack drop by
two whole feet, which is the North Country’s way of teasing us:
“Look, ground! Psych!”
Now, anyone with
half a brain and a weather app could’ve looked at Sunday’s
forecast—which screamed “IMMINENT
BLIZZARD!”—and thought, “Hey, maybe we should fill the
tractor and the extra can of diesel while we still know where they
are and don’t need an avalanche rescue team to retrieve them.”
But no. That would’ve been smart. Efficient. Predictable.
And let’s be honest, nobody wants to read a blog post about that
kind of nonsense:
“Saturday – weather mild. Diesel topped off. Tractor
prepped. Storm handled smoothly. The end.”
Wow. Riveting. Coming soon to a sleep aid aisle near you.
Instead, here’s what actually went down:
Saturday:
DH (Dear Husband) and GS (grandson)
spent the day not preparing. They busied themselves with
"various things"—a suspiciously vague category that
usually involves moving stuff from one place to another and then
standing around admiring it. DH then retired for his afternoon nap
(because, obviously, nothing screams ‘crisis readiness’ like a
solid snooze). That evening, DH and GS ran the taxi service,
shuttling GS to work and back, and then DH and I watched a movie.
Possibly something in the “man fails to plan, wife quietly
simmers” genre.
Sunday:
GS and DH went to church. I stayed
home, valiantly protecting the congregation from the tail-end of my
flu (and myself from real clothing). More snow. All. Day. Long. It
snowed like a snow globe in the hands of a toddler with a sugar high.
We watched it pile up while watching another movie, which felt less
like relaxation and more like a poorly lit scene in a disaster film
where the audience is yelling, “FUEL THE TRACTOR, YOU FOOLS!”
Monday: Welcome to Dumb Decision Consequences, Population:
Us
GS starts plowing the driveway. Yay! Two bars of fuel. Not yay.
Tractor is gasping like a smoker climbing stairs. DH is sent on a
quest for the gas can—somewhere under a snow drift now large enough
to be zoned for housing.
GS clears just enough for DH to get the truck out. He goes to town
for diesel while GS keeps plowing, stopping at one bar because DH has
repeatedly said, “Don’t you ever let that tractor run
outta gas or I’ll… insert vague, dad-level threat here.” So GS
comes inside, because, you know, instructions
were followed.
DH returns, sees the tractor parked, and immediately transforms
into a storm of his own. I calmly (and by calmly, I mean in that very
specific wife-tone that sounds polite but could curdle milk) remind
him that he was the one who didn’t want the tractor to run
dry and GS was doing what he was told.
Cue the stomp. DH heads outside, flings diesel into the tractor
with the flair of a man betrayed by his own logic, and proceeds to
plow like a man trying to burn off 47 years of accumulated marital
friction.
GS, feeling underappreciated, goes to his room and drowns his
teenage angst on the drum set. Loudly. Repeatedly. Possibly in Morse
code. I make lunch while both soundtracks rage—metal-on-metal from
outside and metal-on-cymbals from upstairs. Somewhere in the
distance, snow continues falling like a heavenly middle finger.
Tuesday Morning (A.K.A. Snowverload: The Sequel):
We wake to yet another 6 inches of snow, because winter apparently
has feelings
and we hurt them.
Before heading to work, DH refills the diesel can again. I’d
love to say this was evidence of personal growth or a newfound
respect for preparedness—but let’s be real. He needed to take the
truck
this week. I was left with his car, and nothing motivates a
man like the mental image of diesel sloshing around in a gas can on
the nice carpet of his sedan's trunk.
Moral of the Story: Always fuel the tractor
before the storm. Or don’t. Just make sure the diesel can
never rides in the good car. And maybe install soundproofing around
the drum kit.
