EDITOR’S NOTE: I’ve known the author of this story, my friend Jim, for over twenty-five years. We worked together in the newspaper business a long time ago, and although we have barely kept in touch, it doesn’t seem to matter (and now, in the age of social media, it will be much easier to stay connected). This story was not written specifically for The Dad Story Project, but began its life as a simple Facebook post—just a brief celebration of shoveling, Jim told me. And I think that’s the thing that gives the story such delicious charm. Jim wasn’t committing a deliberate act of journalism which would neatly fit this little dad-encouraging niche in the internet that I’ve created (although he is a journalist); he just wanted to let his corner of the world know that he liked the winter and enjoyed shoveling snow. And yet, he is not just a joyful shoveler, but a dad, too—enjoying his daughter right along with the flinging snow. Fathering made seemingly effortless by just being there in the moment and realizing that the moment is precious.
By Jim Graham
Call me crazy. But I realized today that there’s a part of me that loves all this shoveling. Or, at least the ritual of it. Even after this storm. Even though my back’s sore, too.
Taking a breather, heart pounding in my ears. Listening—no, feeling—the unearthly power of a wind that makes the whole woods shutter with every gust.
My daughter, 10, bundled up in her downhill ski clothes and goggles, making a sled run and popping up over the snowbank now and then to throw light, powdery snowballs at me that disintegrate on contact, covering me in a cloud of tiny, sparkling shards that sting as the wind whisks them to parts unknown. The late afternoon sun at that just-right angle that tinges everything gold.
One snowball hits me right at the hammer loop of my old flannel-lined Carhartt’s. And my daughter laughs, and ducks down behind the snowbank.
The hammer loop, which I told her and my son years ago was sewn on there so that kids could have something to hold onto when they were walking around with their dads. Which they did. And she still does for a laugh now and then. And my old Carhartts, stained with resin from when I built a wooden kayak, spotted with oil from chainsaws and brush cutters and cars and kids’ bicycles, thin at the knees, tattered at the cuffs. Old friends, those pants. And still warm.
Shoveling hard, throwing it high in strong rhythm and—what’s that?—a barred owl interrupts, hooting from the woods behind the house. Man, they’re tough little things. And somehow, they get through this every year, don’t they? To the great annoyance of the crows down the hill.
Even with just the thin pullover, I’m working up a sweat now. And I can’t help but wonder if I could still make a living with my back at age 55. I think I could.
And I think back then to my first heavy job, when I was 13, stacking and loading big buckets of hoof packing and horse liniment for an old guy down the street, who made the stuff in a shop in his barn. I remember the yellow labels on the hoof packing: Net weight: 26 lbs. Hefting and stacking them high was hard work for a scrawny kid. But then, pretty much all the kids I grew up with had jobs like that. Some of them still do. Rugged, good people with strong backs. We don’t get fazed by storms.
The old Sorel boots are my dad’s, maybe the best of his things I kept when he died three years ago. They have a lot of miles on them, too. But good miles, I know, and still warm as well.
So, I shovel in that meditation-in-motion way for 2 hours or more. And smile to think I ever became one of those people who goes to a gym to stay strong. No need for the weights and treadmills and gizmos now, though. I catch my breath, admire the world for a few seconds, and then dig back in, working hard and throwing heavy. Giving it everything I’ve got. Feeling right at home. Talking. Singing. Swearing at the big chunks of ice. Sweating. Even in the windy single digits.
Tossing a shovel-full of light powder every now and then over the snowbank where my daughter is. And she shrieks. And laughs. And I laugh, too. And get back to work.
I can’t see her back there behind the snowbank. But I know it’s coming at some point. So, I shovel away. Listening to the roaring wind and my pounding heart and waiting for another of her snowballs to hit its mark.