Surprises

Waiting for the automatic garage door to open, I saw tokens of the past, standing like soldiers at attention, expecting orders. Dust covered, a spider web veil laced threads together, camouflaging chapters of time. The hoe used to dig beds for springtime bulb planting; tulip cups blossomed fluttering rainbows of color, bordered with yellow daffodils trumpeting revival. The rake, with missing and chipped teeth, needed a patched smile to gather fallen leaves. Long handles hung, blades starting to turn the color of Mars, arranged in a variety of sizes—the spade to trim edges, placed next to a wide scooping snow shovel. The gas mower waited for a tune-up and liquid lunch to style grass into a perfect crew cut. The garage window curtain covered, keeping new landscapers out of view. I no longer have energy for yard work. Seasonal tools in a changing calendar timetable, stir the moment, developing memories.

Backing out of the driveway, a radio weather report emphasized the coming snowstorm, followed by a humorous DJ playing Michael Jackson’s “Beat It”—extra tension to snowbound fears. Chills ran up my spine while recalling winters shoveling the driveway to go to work. The passing years seemed to make every scoopful heavier and heavier. Now a retired Metro bus driver, a sigh of relief escaped as I felt a rush of giddiness steering to the grocery for supplies. I filled a cart with necessary items—cans of soup, chili, tortilla chips, bread, deli meats, and a slow walk around the salad bar for a mixture of flavors. Of course, I couldn’t pass a square pan with sour cream raspberry crisp, which needed a carton of ice cream or side of whipped cream. Not a pioneer chuck-wagon full of staples to cross a snowy mountain top, but I had a mixture of favorites to last for days. Even if the power failed, a tasty sandwich in candle light is comfort food.

Snow fell throughout the night. The morning view was a fresh white sheet, becoming thicker while accumulating new layers. Inside the house, I imagined life in a glass globe, calm, then periodically shaken. Stepping outside, a stilled silence numbed the air. The loud echo in my head from chewing freshly popped corn. I hoped cold critters had found emergency shelters—my snowbound fantasy pictured mixed-species hiding, huddled together for warmth and comfort in peaceful quiet.

Looking out at the backyard, I recalled the snowstorm a decade earlier, so deep we shoveled paths for our small dog to do her “business,” following an octopus like maze, eight lanes toward the sliding glass door. After urgent missions, her long fur coat was covered in marble-sized snowballs, evidence of lost battles with nature. More than once, I shoveled the driveway to slip and slide to work, prepared to steer a bus full of weather weary passengers. Returning home, we shared our ice-covered adventures, laughing while wrapping the white-balled dog in dryer-warmed towels.

They both have passed on to the next journey. I have become a lone survivor watching pleasant flakes drop notes of yesterday memories.

White sheets fell for several days. Like movie previews, I recalled a variety of youthful fun. Creating snow angels, lying on fresh powder, arms and legs moving fast enough to fly like a B-52, leaving behind a cold imprint. Pulling a sled uphill, mixed exhaustion with fear, I acted on heart-throbbing dares to race down ice-slick hills. Fingers and toes thawed at home, holding a cup of marshmallow topped hot cocoa, feet pointed at the fireplace, legs straight as an arrow aimed at the target.

After a few days, looking out the window, I felt even more overwhelmed, lost in an ocean of snow. Waves of frustration were an ever-changing tide as flakes covered the cul-de-sac in hypnotic white. There was no need to be anywhere. I had food, warmth, and the television “clicker” could change channels at lightning speed. Nevertheless, I started pacing back and forth with nervous energy, muttering a list of what ifs. What if I had an emergency? What if the power went out? What if the pipes froze? Worry, worry, worry, I felt trapped and restless. “Cabin fever” thumped my head. Aging was making me feel vulnerable.

Gazing out the window, I noticed the sidewalk and driveway were cleared of snow. I caught a glimpse of an unknown man carrying a shovel as he walked to a house on the other side of the cul-de-sac. Standing frozen in time and amazed at the kindness of a neighborhood stranger, I felt a renewed connection to humanity, surprised with tears in my eyes, and a gift of freedom.

A few more days of snow, the sidewalk and driveway were flooded white, his hard work had disappeared, erased by inconvenient flurries. The front-bell rang, footprints marked the deep sidewalk snow. I opened the door, a woman and young girl announced, “We’re going to the grocery and wonder if you need anything at the store?”

Surprised at the kindhearted new strangers, I answered, “No thank you, I have everything I need. Thank you so much for coming over in this weather.” We talked for a few minutes, and I mentioned, “The man across the way shoveled my sidewalk and driveway. Now the snow has covered his hard work.” I pointed to the house he had walked to, when the woman smiled, “That’s where I live, and this is our granddaughter visiting today.”

I was stunned. All I could say was, “Your husband shoveled my driveway? You can’t imagine how my heart has been touched by his hard work, and the two of you coming over today. You are truly Snow Angels.”

The next day, the sidewalk was cleared, the driveway shoveled, and the pile of snow from the city plow that blocked the driveway was dug away for an exit. Once again, tears filled my eyes for the hard work and kindness.

I awoke on the day that would have been my parent’s anniversary. I thought it was a good omen and drove out on the snow-freed roads to find thank you gifts and a card for my Snow Angels. Finishing the quest, I parked in the driveway. Before I could ring their bell, the door opened. The good-hearted lady of the house explained her husband was taking a nap. I gave her the thank you gifts. She said, “He will be happy to get this; today is his birthday.”

Shocked, I announced I had picked the day because of my parent’s anniversary. I could feel their smiles. My heart continues to be warmed by a storm of kindness from angelic strangers.

April Ryan is a retired Seattle Metro driver who works with Ariele on new ways to do Sharing Stories poems and stories.

SHARING STORIES is a weekly column for and about the 50 plus crowd living in the Puget Sound region. Send your stories and photos to ariele@comcast.net. Tell local or personal stories; discuss concerns around aging and other issues; share solutions, good luck, and reasons to celebrate; poems are fine too. Pieces may be edited or excerpted. We reserve the right to select among pieces. Photos are always a plus and a one-sentence bio is requested (where you live, maybe age or career, retired status, etc.).

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