SNOW FALL

 The old lady could see from the back door that the new wall furnace vent was being advanced upon by a snow drift built by the wind coming around the corner of the house.  She knew that if the vent were covered, it would mean carbon monoxide in the house — possibly, though the advertising said it would not ever vent into the house — or it would snuff out the furnace that was protecting the temperature of the house.

Good thing she finally located her winter coat yesterday.  And in Montana the snow shovel never really gets put away.  So she suited up, except where were her boots?  Hmmm.  Oh, well.  Put on mittens?  Some kind of wimp, are you?  It will only take second.  Sure enough.  Went well except that when she put on her fearsome winter hat with the fur pompom on the top, the cats scattered in a panic.  Hard-wired to fear hats are cats.

The shovel flew, the light snow went swirling, some doubling back to coat her face.  

The forecast said snow would slack at ten PM but thinking about it bugged her, so later she went back out.  It was easy the first time.

The second time, she fell, tripped by vegetation under the deep soft snow.  No damage.  Still holding the snow shovel.  But old ladies can’t stand up without holding onto something solid.  The snow was like soap suds — arms plunged down to the ground but got trapped so no pushing up from that low.  Snow shovel too flimsy — chosen to be light because snow here is almost always dry and light unless it’s old.  Like the old woman.

No yelling for help.  Not with these neighbors.

Thinking about lying on the snow as though it were quicksand going horizontal instead of straight up.  Thinking about floundering through the drift by crawling to the edge of the raised flower bed.  Thinking about putting the snowshovel horizontal on the snow and getting enough resistance to push to her feet.

First try, no luck.  Try harder.  Beginning to chill now.  Bare hands have gone numb.  But head is warm.  Try harder to use the rubber band muscles.  Get at least one foot out in front to push.  

Try harder.

Consider whether this would be believable in a story.  Red coat, just the back of it plus the hat pompon showing above the drift.  All cats killed by the furnace vent being covered by snow so the house filled with carbon monoxide.

Not that.

Try again. To the limit.  Wobble, wheeze, stagger.  Up. 

A step.  Wait to stabilize.  Can’t feel much.

Step.  

Out of the drift now and using the shovel for a flimsy staff.

Half a dozen more steps to the garage door and pull it shut.  Careful now crossing the garage to the kitchen door.  Step up.  Her ex-husband’s second wife died of a broken hip when she fell on her step up to garage-to-kitchen door.  At least this old lady was too chilled to feel anything.

Door sticks.  Give it a hard kick.

All the cats sit in a row, watching.  What trick will she do next?  We don’t want to miss anything.  

It took a while to warm up enough to write.  But she wrote.  It’s all about writing.  Nothing is wasted.  Even the life-threatening.

Cats yawn.  Back to sleep unless we hear a can open.

Old lady begins planning snow diversion to prevent any more snowdrifts.  Maybe a big pile of yard trash at the corner of the house.  This snowfall will be gone by the end of the week.