Snowblower

Our neighbor Bob asked us in the Fall if we wanted a share of a new snowblower. Now four households on the block have chipped in $175 towards a beautiful shiny red machine. I had sneered at snowblowers. I grouped them with snowmobiles as obnoxiously noisy toys of the fat and lazy. Now that I have lived in my wintry northern state for over a quarter century, I had come to accept that I might use a snowblower when I got old. I hold a Puritanical allegiance to the simple sturdy snow shovel, but when the offer came, I jumped. I rationalized that we share the same informal outdoor equipment cooperative's gas powered lawn mower, and it was time that we contributed some capital.

So here I am, not so old - right? Instead of the hearty heave-ho-step-breathe oneness with the icy bounty of the skies, now I slavishly open the fuel valve and the choke, set the switch to on, and pull the starter cord. I push a machine that separates me from nature. Ease comes at a price.

The snowblower brings ethical questions- not about energy consumption and air pollution, but where do I blow the snow? Do I point the outlet so the snow blows onto my neighbor's windows? If I turn it counter clockwise from there, the snow blows onto my other neighbor's car. Although, why must they park in front of our house after all? If I turn further counter clockwise, the snow blows towards our yard, which is fine except the wind blows the snow back onto my driveway defeating the purpose. At another angle, the snow would land innocuously on a deserted strip of yard, but only the small portion that isn't stopped by my face. Although I chafe at the city snowplow for burying my driveway and the cut at the sidewalk down to the street, it doesn't feel right to blow the snow out into the street. In any case, if I send it to the left, the plow will only put it back on my driveway, and if I send it to the right, there's another neighbor's car. With my sweet old shovel, I could precisely place each bit of snow on my terrace where it belongs with no angst, no questions. With the shovel, I stopped at my property line. Now I blow a path on my neighbor's sidewalk as well, but is it insulting to only do one pass leaving a cleared path perhaps a third the width of the sidewalk? Yes, I make a show of helping you, but only so far.

Yesterday I stood in the lightly falling snow with my neighbors Bob and Steve in manly discussion of the day's snowblower schedule, deciding who would be done when and who would use it next. I felt warm and content. Today at my son's boy scout meeting, my neighbor Bob entrusted me with a key to his garage, where we keep our shiny red snowblower.

NYC

I was in New York last weekend. A collaborator, A, invited me to Zinc Bar on West 3rd in Greenwich Village. After dinner at the Grand Central Hyatt, where our meeting was held, and after a drink, we took cabs. I rode with a neuroradiology fellow, V, and her husband, D. We arrived at Zinc at 11 to find that the scheduled appearance by a guitarist, whom A had wanted to see, had been replaced by Buddy Somebody.

The 9 o'clock act finished and Buddy at piano led the trio with drum and bass. The club was half full and dimly lit with candles on the tables. I bought drinks to repay D who had paid for my cover while I was searching my wallet for a ten. Buddy introduced the flutist Herbert Laws in the audience who later played a tune. Buddy played vigorously and gloriously, shaking his head enthusiastically. I sat next to D who is the attending surgical pathologist at home. Around midnight V got tired, and they caught a cab, so I moved over to the sit with A, S - a graduate student, and A's friend W, a Swiss guy who was at ETH in Zurich when I did graduate work there. While we chatted, a pleasant woman sitting alone next to me swayed to Rhapsody in Blue. I learned that A, S, and V have a band that does 90's covers. The set ended, and after I returned from a cigarette outside, the party broke up. A, W, and S left, and the young woman by my side was deep in conversation with two young men, who might have been Brasilian. They left, and I was alone with my thoughts.

The crowd had shifted towards the bar during the break. At 2 Buddy returned to the stage, and announced that "friends will play". I noticed that many in the room carried instrument cases. A woman applied lipstick. The trio played a tune, and then Buddy addressed a man with shoulder length black hair sitting near the stage, "Join us if you like... If you hear it and think you can play it ... this is what it looks like." He flashed the chart at him. "Wait for us ... to get started," and the trio went through the tune once. The young man  listened and fitted the mouthpiece to his alto sax. A couple of bars before the next verse he walked on to the stage, played a sweet solo, and sat down to applause. There was more like that, including Lenore - with fresh lipstick - who sang "You'd be so nice to come home to". Buddy invited up a russian couple on piano and drums, a long haired bearded guy with glasses on bass, an alto, and a tenor sax player. Then a sunny piece by Buddy with Jean Luc, smiling at the challenge, on bass. At 3 the jam ended. I hailed a cab and came back to the hotel.

Band Concert

My wife and younger daughter picked me up from work today. It was dark, and a thin blanket of yesterday's snow lay on the ground. We drove to McDonald's and bought greasy food to reward my younger daughter for her brave performance yesterday at the dentist. She had a baby tooth pulled to make way for an adult tooth that was having trouble establising its own territory. At home we gobbled what we hadn't consumed in the car and, with my son and older daugter, the five of us drove to the older kids' middle school a few blocks from our house across the river. I studied the honor rolls for each grade posted in a display case just inside the entrance. My sixth grade daughter made "High" honor roll in the first quarter, and my son was listed on the "Regular" honor roll. They are good well rounded kids and it is gratifying that they are doing well academically as well. Sometimes I give my son, an eighth grader, a hard time. I want him to understand that grades will be important in high school, but I also don't want him to drive himself too hard. I think I took grades too seriously in high school. It's difficult to find the right balance between workaholism and bumhood. Or is it?

My older daughter plays flute in the band with about seventy other sixth graders. The band teacher is a young man with dark hair and glasses, who is kind, bright, and has a good touch with the kids. The principal introduced my wife, who is co-president of the parent-teacher group, so she could announce a couple of fund raising events. Then the director stepped to the podium, the musicians prepared their instruments, and the band launched into a spirited rendition of Hot Crossed Buns. Perhaps thirty minutes later - who can say? - the last note wafted through the gymnasium, and we retired to the cafeteria for ice cream at a dollar a pop, which was one of the fundraisers that my wife had announced. I joked with one friend, a skier and biker, who was volunteering at the feed trough, steadily scooping out mint chip. I spoke with another friend whose father died this month in Chicago. Perhaps he had lived a great life, was older, and the statistics didn't promise anything more, nevertheless losing your father is incomprehensible until it happens and I had nothing to say to my friend. Life is precious and full of goodness. Why must we leave?

Another cluster of friends were discussing the Facebook relationship status of one of their sixth grade sons. His mother reported, "They had a crisis for about twenty four hours and their statuses were 'single', but then they worked it out."

The kids and I helped my wife count the money raised by the ice cream social - a hundred dollars and change. We stepped out into the cold, and we walked towards the car.