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32 “НАШЕ ЖИТТЯ”, БЕРЕЗЕНЬ 2011 The Winter of Our Discontent Winter has never been my favorite season, and this past winter probably counts as one of the worst. Most likely, this is old age creeping up on me, because I remember winters that I endured with a much better attitude and with at least some effort to soldi er on a with something like a sense of humor. There was, for example, the winter I hauled out the cross - country skis to run errands. I skied to the supermarket, to Blockbuster’s, even to the bank (I went to the drive - in window just to make the tellers nuts ). I also aroused the admiration and/or envy of all the poor slobs still trying to dig their cars out of 3 - foot drifts. Who needs wheels, when ya got skis? But that was then and this is now and by mid - February, the ice and snow and sleet and wind had real ly gotten to me. And to pretty much everyone else. Take, for example, the shoveling routine. I live on a dead end street off a dead and street, with nice neighbors — all friendly and helpful folks. When the first snow fell, everyone came out to shovel. It wa s that nice powdery snow, about 2 - 3 inches deep that you can almost sweep up with a broom, and we were all cheerful and exchanging pleasantries and enjoying how pretty it was. Then comes the second snow. The soggy, heavy stuff that is a real pain to shovel , especially when your teeth won’t stop chattering because the temperature has dropped to 10 degrees and the wind keeps blowing in your face. Suddenly, the tone changes — everyone is muttering under their breath and glaring at the township snowplow that has just shoved a four - foot heap in front of all the driveways that we’ve just about finished shoveling. So now the disgruntled references to Al Gore and global warming and tree - huggers begin. By the third snowfall, no one is talking to anybody else — we’re all afraid someone will ask for help. And then comes more freezing rain and sleet and more snow on top of that just to compound the misery. The roads are bad. Black ice everywhere. Some streets are plowed, others aren’t — just when you think you’re getting some where, your car starts skidding or you’re stuck in some big blob of a snowdrift. So you play it safe and stay close to home. Then the cabin fever sets in. So people start phoning because everybody’s stuck at home and feels like venting and explaining why t heir battles with the weather are much worse than yours. “My snow blower broke . . . I was out for two hours chipping the ice off my driveway with a hammer . . . I slipped and fell on my you know what and I’m black and blue . . .” And then, of course, somebody calls fr om New England or Chicago and sneers, “You think you had it bad? You should see what we got socked with.” I don’t wanna hear it. And after all the one - upmanship, things get even weirder. Case in point — my father, who recently moved in with me, feels bad th at I’m out there shoveling and decides he wants to help. Nice man, my father, and I for sure don’t want him catching pneumonia or falling and breaking something, so I go ballistic and we argue. I figure I can win by playing the guilt card. “Ok. Go ahead. G o out there and shovel snow. And one of the neighbors will see you and call the police and I’ll get arrested for elder abuse and go to jail and then what will you eat when I’m not here to cook?” And the response to all this? “I’ll order pizza.” But the rea lly over the top snow weirdness comes a day or two later. Early in the morning the next door neighbor calls and asks if he can borrow 4 tablespoons of vegetable oil so he can make pancakes for his kids. Now how am I supposed to get 4 tablespoons of oil to him when I can barely open the front door and my steps and the driveway are covered with 2 inches of ice? Says he: “Don’t worry about it. I’ll send Carly over (Carly being his sweet young daughter) . Says I: “No way Jose. She’ll slip on the driveway and bre ak something and then you’ll sue me and I’m not having any of that. Here, I got an idea. How about I wrap the oil in a plastic bag and just slide it down the driveway so she can pick it up at the bottom.” Says he: “I got a better idea. Why don’t you come o ut your side door and I’ll come out my side door and you can just toss it to me. Says I: “Sounds like a plan.” So I get dressed like Nanook of the North and go out the side door and am about to heave the bottle of vegetable oil over the six - foot - high snow pile between us, when the phone rings. So I answer and here’s some disgustingly cheery person asking me “Whatcha doing?” And when I answer, “I’m throwing oil at my neighbor,” the phone clicks and goes dead ’ cause whoever it was now thinks I’m psycho. – TSC Видання C оюзу Українок A мерики - перевидано в електронному форматі в 2012 році . A рхів C У A - Ню Йорк , Н . Й . C Ш A.
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