Let it snow! Let it snow! Let it snow!

published last year in The Fauquier Times-Democrat Weekend, 1/15/2010, as "The winter's first snow brings out a stranger - with a shovel"

The first time we had snow, our doorbell rang at dusk. A stooped man, who could easily have been my father, asked if we wanted our driveway cleared.


Just then, my 14-year-old son came to the door. It's wonderful to have sons, because even though they can eat up all the groceries, these individuals LOVE to do the tasks that I don't: cut the grass, dig holes, accompany their father to Home Depot or Radio Shack, and shovel the driveway. (It's wonderful to have daughters too.) I felt terrible about turning away this old man, but Snow Shoveler Son #1 had just reported for duty.


 “Well, Ahm jes sayin', theysa callin' furass – all this gonna fraze.” I like to pride myself on being able to follow people's accents, but this man's was difficult, even for me. Whether this was due to partial paralysis or because he was storing marbles in his mouth, I cannot say. My kids accuse me of developing a bogus “sympathy accent” whenever I speak to someone with an accent. They say this is patronizing, even if unintended. We all know this cannot possibly be true, because that portrays me in a bad light. (They're probably just jealous of my abilities.)



I told him we would definitely clear our driveway before dark, before the ice and before the freeze. I wished him best of luck going door to door, because of the many vacant houses in our neighborhood. “Well, Ah thankye, ma'am, anna Murry Christmas to ya, ma'am. Murry Christmas!” he said as he doddered off.

 Just stab me in the heart, will you? How can you let someone like that stumble away into the cold? I checked with my husband before dispatching my son to bring the man back. We “let” him do the job, but real generosity would probably have given him money, a nice, warm meal and asked nothing in return. Instead, my version of generosity stayed inside the warm house and put together a bag of granola bars and fruit while the old man set to work on our sidewalk and driveway.

 “Would you like something hot to drink - some coffee, perhaps?” I shouted out to him. (Shouting is my preferred method of communication; it is as effective indoors and out.) I dared not offer hot chocolate because we were out of milk, but not creamer. “Thadda be jes' fan – but no sugga, nor nuthin' – jes' straight black,” he said. How convenient for me. And then, worry clouded his face. “That coffee ain't comin' outta my money, now, is it?” I reassured him it would not, and began percolating the coffee.

 Then, I ran about the house looking for cash. I had about thirty cents in my purse. Hmmm. I was out of milk and out of cash. Perhaps I should be the one out there with a shovel. There were two reasons I desperately needed cash. You don't want to hand a check to someone who is desperately going door-to-door to work for cash. Second, all of our contact information is on our checks. I don't mind handing out coffee, cash, and cheer, but, and I'm ashamed to be like this, I don't necessarily want to advertise all of our contact information.



I located $ 2 in my husband's wallet, drained $ 8 from my 17-year-old daughter, and got a $ 5 offering from my 11-year-old son. There wasn't another dollar in the house. Thank God, literally, that I had scraped together $ 15, because that's exactly what the man had asked.



I asked the man if he'd like to come in for his coffee. How could I expect him to drink it on the porch? He came in and stood unsteadily on the mat, refusing my offer to sit on the sofa. He didn't want to put his muddy boots on the carpet. With his good hand, he removed the glove from his stiffened left hand, and he accepted the coffee. His hand kept quivering, and coffee sloshed. We both apologized profusely, and I had him come sit at our kitchen table, where everyone who was nearby (my three sons and 7-year-old daughter) introduced themselves.


“Y'all Panish 'o Mexgun?” he asked.

“No, we're not Spanish or Mexican - we're from India,” I said.


“Yep – Ah knows lotto Inyuns in Marshall. One gottumself kaled. Owed somebuddy money o' sumpin', and theysa 'jes put a 357 mangum upta his hade. Thenna pop!” He pointed his index finger to simulate a pistol going off, smack between his eyebrows. This made me a little nervous; it's not the usual light conversation people make, even if young children aren't present.



Then, my teenaged daughter politely came down to introduce herself. This grandfather could barely contain his enthusiasm. His whole countenance lit up. “Well, now – who this? Who this? You sho is boo-ful.” Then he looked at me, “Ma'am, yo' rate jes got cut. Thas right – yo rate jes got cut in heyuf.  Heyuf uv heyuf!”
 Stay tuned for part 2 next week.