A couple of winters ago I made my way through deep snow to the bottom of my driveway at four o’clock in the morning, to be picked up by the town plow—a ride I had arranged the evening before—when a major storm had been forecast.
Out of the darkness, first came the rumbling sound of the plow, then lights flashing orange through the trees. I climbed up into the monster, which for the next three hours the driver navigated up and down many back roads.<!--break-->
We pushed through the low canopy of heavy snow covering overhanging branches. From time to time, the driver coordinated his route with the other town plow, while I watched the snow curling away and the sparks flying from the blade as it hit the road.
Meanwhile, skiers and snowboarders, after making up lame excuses not to go to school or to work, were making their way to the mountain and lining up at the lifts with big grins on their faces. And then they were off, hitting all their avorite slopes and snowdrifts, enjoying a great day of skiing and riding.
No regrets!
