Close Encounters of the Suburban Kind

I woke up yesterday morning to the sound of a lone shovel, scraping against the unwieldy blanket of snow that had buried the driveway next door. A mirror image of my very own driveway. Peering through my window, I watched as our neighbour tackled the impossible task, knee deep in snow under the brilliant shining sun. That glorious sunshine almost mocking him with its intensity, as he stopped to take a rest every couple of minutes. He was making very little headway.

But as he stood taking another break, surveying the remaining terrain he had yet to conquer, a group of three men walked toward him, with shovels in hand and a snowblower in tow. They worked together and had the driveway cleared in about 15 minutes.

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After our snow service did the basic clearing of our driveway, being the weird oxymoronic Type A/slob that I am (heavy emphasis on the moronic part), I felt the inexplicable need to kick off every single remaining offending snowflake that still resided on the premises. Or maybe I felt guilty that I had been snowed in, and had pigged out on chips and banana bread with my kids for three days rather than go to the gym. Needed to do something part-way physical. That, and the other inexplicable need to impress my husband by clearing the drive before he arrived home from Belgium, prompted me to head out myself later in the afternoon. The children had decided to stay in, despite my earnest pleas for them to come out and enjoy the sunshine with me.

The problem with the glaring sun in not-so-cold temperatures is that it creates packing snow. Perfect for making snowmen. Not so perfect for shovelling.

During one of my many heavingly-coughing-wheezing (I'm a non-smoker, I swear) resting patches, I witnessed an older woman walking along my quiet street, shopping bag in hand. Can I tell you how unusual that is on the best of days, let alone just after a snowlashing of almost record-breaking proportions? The lady, bless her heart, stopped and commented on what a great job I was doing on my driveway. Humble-me fessed up right away and admitted that I was only cleaning up the remnants left by the dratted works department. But she understood and still plauded my efforts. She agreed that it's better if it's all clean, rather than deal with the sheet of ice that will certainly follow the great melt. And then we had a nice conversation about her grandchildren and their visits with her every summer, staying just around the corner from us. I could feel the curious stares of my children through the front windows as I was chatting.

When I went back inside, the kids jumped on me right away. Who was that, Mommy? Do we know her? Where does she live?

I suppose it is natural for them to be curious, a bit apprehensive perhaps. These types of exchanges don't happen very often in these here 'burbs. And certainly not involving their mother. I'm the posterchild for ISTJ; I'm the neighbour who drives her minivan into the garage right away and shuts the door behind; who you only see occasionally popping out in the spring/summer, maybe in the fall with her kids. The Dad is the one out talking with the neighbours, watering the garden, raking the leaves. Because the black-thumbed Mom is in the house blogging.

*****

These incidents remind me a bit of what it was like to live in the city. That neighbourhood feel that has been eluding us for the few years that we have been up here.

I think things may be looking up a bit in suburbia.