Confesiones a un Árbol: The Winter of 2015

THE WINTER OF 2015

Winter 2015: The backyard

In New Hampshire, winter officially begins on December 21, and the hope is always for a “White Christmas.” But since last November 26, the eve of my birthday, the region was slammed—unexpectedly and far too early—by a snowstorm that knocked down trees and caused basic services like electricity to fail.

My birthday always falls around my favorite holiday, Thanksgiving. In 2014, the two actually coincided on the same fourth Thursday of November. My family had many plans; from the night before, Terry was preparing the food we would take the next day to her sister Karen's house in Bow, where we would celebrate the holiday along with my birthday. But nature’s sudden blow canceled everything, and I ended up working an emergency shift clearing snow.

I worked both the eve and on my birthday itself. Shoveling snow is a winter job for me to earn extra money. Usually, there aren't too many storms, but this time, not even its early appearance on Thanksgiving made us imagine that the winter of 2015 would be historic—not only for the sheer brutality of the cold but also for the massive amount of snow. The numbers speak for themselves: last month was the coldest February in the last 146 years, and the total snowfall reached a record seven feet.

I have no doubt that today, if we were to see the cities of New Hampshire from above, they would look like intricate white labyrinths. A new map drawn as a result of the struggle between man and snow—the snow that buries everything and the man who clears paths to go on with his life. Out on the streets, plow trucks clear the roads, leaving looming white ridges in their wake. At home, mounds of snow choke driveways and entrances. Daily life is funneled into a network of hollows and paths, with endless branches tunneling through this frozen labyrinth.

I never saw snow in Peru. And in England, where I lived for ten years, I rarely witnessed more than a few centimeters accumulate on the ground. New Hampshire has been my true gauntlet, but it’s also true that life prepares us for whatever comes. I’ve already spent a decade in this part of the United States, and despite its harsh winter, I have always considered it my favorite season—not only for its poignant beauty but for its creative pull. My thoughts gain depth and my writing grows fertile. My connection to the environment deepens; shoveling snow becomes a sort of vital sport, a dialogue with nature.

But as my mother says, "enough is as good as a feast"—though this was far too much of a good thing. And that is the current case: snow, snow, and more snow. Without a break for reading or writing. A few weeks ago, my daughter turned sixteen, and I could barely see her for a couple of hours, as I had to get into bed to rest a bit and head back out at dawn to continue my work. Consecutive days of long shifts. During the storms, clearing snow; and during the truces, preparing space for more snow on the way.

Because of the cold, the roads, sidewalks, and driveways get covered in ice. One wrong step could end in a nasty fall. Plow trucks roam the streets spreading a mix of sand and salt—the first gives traction to the cars, and the second melts the ice. When I open the door in the morning, my walkway and driveway look like mirrors of ice. Before heading to work, I toss salt on the pavement, and the ice begins to crack like shattered glass, much like the skin on my own hands, chapped and raw from the cold. I always leave a note on the door for Terry and Dorothy: “Watch out for the ice.”

While man manages to reclaim streets and driveways in his struggle with the snow, it piles up unopposed on the roofs. Buildings in New Hampshire are wooden structures and can only hold a limited amount of weight. In this scenario, rain is a deadly enemy. The snow acts like a sponge soaks up the rain, and under the extra weight, roofs collapse. Toward the fourth week of February, the weather service announced rain, and a feverish activity broke out as people climbed onto their roofs to clear the snow.

For me, the end of the daily workday was just the beginning of a new shift at my own house. Besides clearing the area for the cars and the roof, I had to shovel paths to every door, to the oil tank for the boiler, to the propane tank for the kitchen, to the mailbox, the shed, the electric meter, the deck, the corner where I keep the ladder, the spot where I set up the generator, and so on. The surroundings of my house, seen from the height of Dorothy’s Playhouse, also looked like an intricate white labyrinth.

My driveway is what gives me the most work. It must be clear of snow to park the family’s two cars, plus extra space for visitors, fuel trucks, or repair services. For weeks, I pushed the snow from this driveway toward the backyard. I piled so much snow in that one spot that a massive mountain of ice built up—and it blocked the little path I shovel to move the portable generator from the shed to where it runs in case of emergency.

On the third Friday of February, upon returning from work, I went straight to the mountain to move it. In the dead of night, I slammed the shovel against the white mass... once, twice, three times, and then many more. Nothing happened. Only a few shards of hard snow flew off. I stepped back and hurled myself with the shovel, but the wall of ice didn’t budge. It was the first time the sheer weight of a job had defeated me. “The years don’t pass in vain, Eduardo,” I thought to myself. I put the tools away and went inside, followed by a sense of unease. I knew I’d have a lot to think about that night.

Actually, I slept well and woke up in a good mood. I indulged in a breakfast I love but usually avoid: two fried eggs and two sausages, two slices of bread, and a mug of tea. I picked my best shovels and dressed for the cold; while I bundled up, I thought of my father. He came to me with a piece of advice: “Never give up without putting up a good fight first.” Once I was ready, I went out to face the mountain. Three hours later, not a trace remained of that white mass that had blocked my path—only a few drops of sweat beading in the cold.

The first storm of the season canceled my birthday. That day I turned fifty-four. This winter has been a great challenge, but I’ve come out stronger. In the autumn of my life, I still have many winters to see and overcome. Let them keep coming… I’ll be waiting here with my shovel.

New Hampshire, USA

March 2015