Overnight, as per predictions, a foot of powder had fallen, reconfiguring my surroundings to a Whistler. When first alerted to the impending blizzard I had every intention of buying a shovel, but a good book got in the way.
Late into the day snow continued to fall so I tore myself from the excellent read. Scuffling with the elements I burrowed a route to my car. I drove to town to find it unrecognizable in its desolation except for a cardboard Santa and his caravan swinging ridiculously in the air over Main Street.
I slid around with the radio playing something classical and I was charmed by the romantic melancholy of it all. Snowflakes continually descended, absorbing noise and obscuring sight. Eventually I had to acknowledge the sli
de beneath my tires. Carefully I steered homebound.
There were no tracks on the road to my house, not even those of a plow. No signs of life at all other than a hunchbacked man trudging down my street. At first I figured he must be deranged as this was not strolling weather. On approach I saw he was wearing a backpack and carrying something like a broom.
Closer still I saw it was a shovel.
Oh right, a shovel. I meant to buy a shovel. I considered returning to the village. Instead I slowed beside the man and asked him if he was looking for work.
“Si.” He told me and we struck up a deal. His name is Victor and for the rest of the winter Victor will be my shoveler. Thank the heavens, I’m now returned to reading. Long live Victor.