By DEE BLAIR
"Say, Tom, let me whitewash a little."
-- Mark Twain, "The Adventures of Tom Sawyer"
Morning found me shoveling a foot of snow off my cottage's slippery, steep, 90-foot-long driveway. The vast Golden Valley was a white blur. Far below, the little villages of Wormelow Tump and Much Dewchurch lay under deep snow. Cottage chimneys puffed gray smoke. No cars trundled down their buried lanes. Those residents were probably trapped, at least for today.
It was strangely quiet on the A49 motorway, but I was too busy to ponder why. Finally, I reached the wide bottom apron. Lorries roaring by had sprayed even more snow here. I groaned. The hardest work was ahead ...
I heard voices. Pedestrians? On that dangerous motorway? Surely not!
A 40-something couple wearing thin jackets and inadequate footgear plodded toward me. Twelve powdery inches of snow atop the tire-polished, ice-covered road surface made walking a challenge. In another minute they'd arrived in my snow-heaped driveway.
"Nothing's moving anywhere," the man said, panting. "This motorway's just been closed by police. A lorry's jack-knifed; three other cars, including ours, almost ran into it. Nobody was hurt -- though we nearly went off the edge!" He gestured toward the cliff that bordered the motorway. Only a naked, hefty hedge stood between it and a precipitous drop. His female companion shuddered.
The man sighed. "We're headed for the Pilgrim Hotel" -- (a quarter mile farther on) -- "for food and phone calls. Never saw so much white stuff."
He paused to admire my work. "Now, that's a big job." The cleaned asphalt gleamed black. His gaze followed the curve till it bent out of sight.
"How far does it rise?"
"Oh, nearly to the top," I allowed, grinning. He looked startled by my American accent, but then noticed my snow shovel. "Your tool seems up to it, lass. Haven't seen that sort of pusher before."
I grinned. "Yep. It really shifts snow." He eyed it with interest. (Snow shovels are unknown here.)
Hmmm ... was this a "Tom Sawyer" trick-others-into-whitewashing-the-fence opportunity? I was tired and tea-starved. My hands were blistered. A wicked idea was born.
"Thirty years ago Mom brought this shovel 5,000 miles from America," I intoned. "It's been especially handy these last two winters. There's a trick to using it efficiently. Balance, and rhythm, are key."
I demonstrated, collecting a good bite of snow, then heaving it evenly onto the high, blanketed bank with practiced ease.
Hearing a subtle challenge he flexed his bare hands while his companion watched. "Can I have a go?"
I hesitated -- then offered him the shovel. Initially awkward, he learned fast. Weighty scoops flew onto the steep bank from a good distance. The lady demanded a turn; he passed her the shovel with reluctance. She quickly got the hang of it, but her tosses fell short. Staggering slightly, she carried loads where they needed to go.
Three burly men trudged up the motorway to join our little party. Intrigued, they wanted turns. An unspoken scoop-and-fling competition developed. The lady and I cheered them on.
That huge apron was cleared in record time! The lorry driver took out his wallet. "Can I buy 'er?" he asked. I politely declined. I'd be marooned up there without it.
He relinquished the shovel and sighed. "Ah, lassie, I wish you'd sell. I'd be popular with me neighbors, right enough ..."
The group, warmer now, waved goodbye and floundered off. Jubilant, I marched up the driveway, chanting:
White stuff on -- white stuff off --
It don't matter none.
Ya Sawyer chance to pass the buck --
An' now the job is done!
Dee Blair's Sunnybank Gardens are closed for the season. Visit her Web site, www.deeblair.com for more information. Find more of her columns online at record-eagle.com/deeblair.
