Planning

We had ourselves a charming little storm over the weekend. Saturday? Rain. All. Day. Warm-ish temps that melted two feet of snow, which is the North Country’s way of taunting you: “Look. Ground!. . . Just kidding.”

Now, anyone with a weather app and a functioning frontal lobe could’ve looked at Sunday’s forecast—which was basically flashing IMMINENT BLIZZARD in Vegas-sized letters—and thought, “Hey, maybe we should fill the tractor and that extra diesel can while we still know where they are and don’t need a search party with avalanche beacons.”

But no. That would’ve been smart. Efficient. Predictable. And let’s be honest—nobody wants to read that story:

“Saturday—weather mild. Diesel topped off. Tractor prepped. Storm handled smoothly. The end.”

Wow. Thrilling. Coming soon to a library section labeled “For Insomniacs.”

Instead, here’s how it actually went down:

Saturday:

Jim and my grandson spent the day not preparing. They busied themselves with “various things”—a suspiciously vague category that usually involves moving junk from one spot to another and then standing around admiring the new location. Jim then retired for his sacred afternoon nap—because nothing says “crisis readiness” like a coma. (To be fair, Jim spends the week away—working twelve-hour days after a three-hour drive on Monday, then making the three-hour trip back home on Friday—so by the weekend he’s running on fumes.) That night, they ran taxi service for Grandson’s work shift, then Jim and I watched a movie—probably something in the Man Fails to Plan, Wife Simmering Silently genre.

Sunday:

Grandson and Jim went to church. I stayed home, nobly protecting the congregation from the tail end of my flu (and myself from the tyranny of socially presentable clothes). Meanwhile—snow. All. Day. Long. It fell like a snow globe being shaken by a toddler on espresso. We watched it pile up while watching another movie, which felt less like relaxation and more like a disaster film where the audience is screaming, “FUEL THE TRACTOR, YOU FOOLS!”

Monday:

Welcome to Dumb Decision Consequences, Population: Us

Grandson started plowing the driveway. Yay! Two bars of fuel. Not yay. The tractor was wheezing like a two-pack-a-day smoker climbing stairs. Jim was dispatched to find the gas can—last seen somewhere under a drift big enough to apply for its own zip code.

Grandson cleared just enough for Jim to get the truck out. Jim went to town for diesel while Grandson kept plowing—stopping at one bar because Jim has repeatedly said, “Don’t you ever let that tractor run outta gas or I’ll. . . [insert vague, dad-level threat here].” So Grandson came inside, mission technically accomplished.

Jim returned, saw the tractor parked, and instantly turned into a one-man weather event. I “calmly” (read: in that special wife-tone that can curdle milk) reminded him that he was the one who didn’t want the tractor to run dry, and Grandson was following orders.

Cue the stomp. Jim marched outside, dumped diesel into the tractor with all the drama of a man betrayed by his own logic, and then plowed like he was trying to exorcise 47 years of marital tension.

Grandson, now feeling underappreciated, retreated to his drum set to pound out his angst—loudly, repeatedly, possibly in Morse code. I made lunch while the house filled with two dueling soundtracks: metal-on-gravel from outside, and wood-on-cymbals from downstairs. Meanwhile, snow kept falling like a heavenly middle finger.

Tuesday Morning (a.k.a. Snowverload: The Sequel):

We woke to another six inches, because apparently winter’s feelings were hurt and this was revenge.

Before heading to work, Jim refilled 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 for the love of everyone’s sanity, put soundproofing around the drum set.

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