The metal shovel screamed as I jammed its blade into the mouth of his snowblower, choking the engine in a blast of backfired ice.
He cut the power, his face a mask of pure rage under the swirling snow, but then a slow, condescending grin spread across his lips. “Public easement, sweetheart.”
That man had no idea he’d just sealed his fate with a single word.
Little did he know, his favorite smug phrase was a legal fiction, and I was about to use a meticulously kept digital diary and one glorious city ordinance to make him pay a small fortune to have his own mess professionally hauled away.
The Gathering Storm: The First Flakes
The first snow of the season is always a lie. It comes down soft and apologetic, dusting the skeletons of the maples and clinging to the evergreens like powdered sugar. It whispers of cozy nights and hot chocolate, a gentle introduction to the months of frozen misery ahead. I watched the flakes drift past my office window, each one a tiny, beautiful falsehood.
My name is Eliza, and at fifty, I’ve learned to distrust beautiful falsehoods. My job is to manage them. As a senior project manager for a software firm, I wrangle timelines, budgets, and the delicate egos of developers who believe code is poetry. I live by Gantt charts and status updates. My world is one of controlled, predictable order.
My husband, Mark, loves the first snow. He sees it and thinks of skiing, of the fireplace crackling, of the quiet beauty of a world muffled in white. I see it and my stomach clenches, because I think of Walter.
Walter, or Walt as he insists everyone call him, is our neighbor to the right. He’s a monument to aggrieved masculinity, a man whose primary hobby seems to be maintaining the most aggressively pristine lawn and, come winter, the most surgically clear driveway in all of suburban Ohio. And for the past six years, his method of achieving that clarity has been my personal, recurring nightmare.
The memory is so vivid it feels like it happened this morning. The grinding roar of his two-stage, commercial-grade snowblower, the arc of white spraying high into the air, and the methodical way he’d walk it right up to our property line. He’d pivot, and with a flick of his wrist, direct the chute to unload a glacier’s worth of his snow onto the end of my driveway. Every storm. Every year.
The Orange Beast Awakens
Three days later, the lie was over. The sky turned the color of a dirty nickel and unleashed eight inches of dense, wet snow. The kind of snow that breaks backs and shovels. I was on a 7 a.m. call with the Bangalore team, my headset clamped on, trying to explain why their latest patch had broken the user interface for our biggest client. My screen was a sea of concerned faces in tiny boxes.
Then I heard it. A low, guttural cough, followed by a roar that vibrated through the floorboards. The Orange Beast was awake.
I muted my mic and walked to the living room window, pulling back the curtain. There was Walt, bundled in a bright orange snowsuit that made him look like an escaped convict from a polar prison. His snowblower, a behemoth that could clear a runway, was a matching shade of obnoxious orange. He was a perfect caricature of suburban warfare.
Mark came up behind me, a mug of coffee in his hand. “He’s at it early,” he said, his voice still thick with sleep.
“He’s always at it early,” I muttered, watching Walt start his first pass. The machine chewed up the snow and spat it out in a plume twenty feet long. He was already working his way toward our property line. The dread in my gut was cold and heavy. I had a 9 a.m. presentation with our VP of Sales. It was a critical meeting, one I’d been preparing for all week. I couldn’t be late. I couldn’t be flustered.
“Maybe it won’t be so bad this time,” Mark offered, ever the optimist. He’d never been the one to have to clear it. His commute was a ten-second walk to his own home office in the basement.
I didn’t answer. I just watched the orange monster advance, its engine a promise of the work to come.
A Wall of White
Walt was an artist of accumulation. He didn’t just clear his driveway; he sculpted his snow. He’d start at the top, by his garage, and work his way down in meticulous, overlapping lines. For the first twenty feet, he’d aim the chute directly onto his own front lawn, building a neat, uniform berm along his flowerbeds. It was a demonstration. See? I can be reasonable.
But as he neared the street, his strategy shifted. The public easement, that ten-foot stretch of no-man’s-land between the sidewalk and the road, was his canvas. And my driveway was his paint.
He’d make a pass down his left side, the side bordering our property. The plume of snow would arc perfectly, landing in a dense heap exactly where our driveway met the street. Then he’d turn around and come back up the same line, this time firing the snow from the other side of his machine, reinforcing the wall. He did this over and over, packing it down, turning fluffy powder into something with the density of wet concrete.
I stood at the window, my hand gripping the sill so tightly my knuckles were white. The Bangalore team was still chattering in my ear, their voices a distant, irrelevant buzz. All I could focus on was the growing wall. It was a deliberate, calculated act. He had a massive lawn, a whole corner lot with acres of space to deposit his snow. But he chose my driveway. He chose to block me in.
Mark put a hand on my shoulder. “Eliza, let it go. I’ll help you clear it when you’re done with your meeting.”
“By then the plows will have come and buried it under another foot of ice,” I said, my voice sharp. “I have to get it now.” The meeting was in an hour and a half. It would take me that long to even make a dent.
The Morning Aftermath
By 8:15, I was zipped into my parka, my laptop still open on the kitchen table, the presentation slides mocking me. The air was frigid, the kind of cold that steals your breath and crystallizes the hairs in your nose. The wall Walt had built was four feet high and at least ten feet wide, a solid barricade of compacted snow and ice.
I plunged my shovel into it. It was like trying to stab a rock. The blade just bounced off with a dull thud. This wasn’t shoveling. This was mining. Each scoop was a grunt-inducing deadlift of heavy, granulated ice. This was the snowblower’s foulest trick: it didn’t just move snow, it pulverized it, melting it slightly with the friction and heat of the machine before flinging it into the freezing air where it instantly refroze into a solid mass.
Sweat started to prickle my scalp under my wool hat. My lower back screamed in protest. Every few minutes, I’d stop, leaning on the shovel handle, panting, my breath pluming in the still air. And that’s when I’d see him.
Walt would be in his garage, the door wide open. He’d be wiping down The Orange Beast with a rag, a thermos of something steaming perched on his workbench. He wouldn’t be looking directly at me, but I knew he was watching. Then, as if on cue, he’d lift his hand in a cheerful, infuriating little wave. Not a wave of sympathy. It was a wave of ownership. A wave that said, Look at the problem I made for you. And look at me, warm and finished.
I ignored him, my anger a hot coal in my gut. I checked my watch. 8:45. My meeting started in fifteen minutes. I had cleared a path just wide enough for a person to squeeze through. My car was still completely trapped. There was no way I was getting out.
Defeated, I trudged back inside, shedding my wet coat and boots in the mudroom. I logged into my meeting, camera off, my face flushed and my hair damp with sweat. “Sorry, everyone,” I said, my voice tight. “Having some technical difficulties this morning.” It wasn’t a lie. Walter was a technical difficulty. He was a system failure in human form.
The Escalation: A Polite Inquiry
The anger from that morning didn’t fade. It simmered on a low boil all day, a bitter aftertaste to my coffee, a distracting hum during my meetings. Mark, bless his conflict-averse heart, thought I should just let it go. “He’s an old crank, Eli. It’s not worth the fight.”
“It is worth the fight,” I told him that evening, pacing the kitchen. “It’s about respect. It’s the principle of the thing. He is actively, knowingly, making my life harder for his own convenience. That’s not being a crank; that’s being an asshole.”
So, I decided on a course of action. I would try reason. I would be the bigger person. The next day was Saturday, the sun a pale wafer in a blue sky. I saw Walt outside, meticulously sweeping a few stray snowflakes off his perfectly clear porch. This was my chance. I put on my boots, took a deep breath, and walked across the crunching snow of my own, still-imperfectly-cleared yard.
“Morning, Walt,” I said, forcing a smile that felt like it might crack my face.
He looked up, his expression guarded. “Eliza.” He nodded, not stopping his sweeping.
“Listen, I wanted to talk to you about the snow-blowing,” I began, keeping my tone light and neighborly. “When you clear your driveway, you end up piling a lot of it right at the end of mine. It makes it really difficult for me to get out in the morning.”
He stopped sweeping and leaned on his broom, his eyes narrowing slightly. “Well, where do you suggest it goes? It’s gotta go somewhere.”
“You have that whole side yard,” I said, gesturing with my chin toward the vast, empty expanse of his corner lot. “You could easily aim it that way.”
He let out a short, barking laugh. It wasn’t a sound of humor. It was a sound of dismissal. “That’s my lawn. I spend all summer getting that grass just right. Not gonna bury it under a mountain of icy slush full of road salt. Kills the turf.”
I stared at him, my forced smile melting away. “But it’s okay to bury my driveway, which I need to use to get to my job?”
“Public easement, sweetheart,” he said, the word ‘sweetheart’ landing like a small, poisoned dart. “That strip by the road is fair game. Not my problem.” He turned back to his sweeping, a clear signal that the conversation was over. I stood there for a moment, invisible and dismissed, the cold air burning in my lungs. The bigger person approach was a catastrophic failure.
Research and Regulations
I stormed back into the house, my face hot with fury. “Unbelievable,” I muttered to Mark, who was reading the paper at the kitchen island. “He basically told me to screw myself.”
Mark sighed and lowered his glasses. “I told you he was a crank.”
“This is beyond crank,” I said, pulling my laptop toward me. “This is a declaration of war.”
My project manager brain took over. Emotion wasn’t a strategy; it was noise. I needed data. I needed leverage. I opened a browser and started typing. “City of Northwood snow removal ordinance.”
I scrolled through pages of dense, bureaucratic text about sidewalk clearing and commercial plowing contracts. And then I found it. A beautiful, glorious little paragraph under Section 521.06: Nuisances. It was titled “Deposition of Snow and Ice.”
“No person shall plow, shovel, or deposit snow or ice, or cause it to be plowed, shoveled or deposited, from private property onto any public street, sidewalk, or right-of-way in a manner that obstructs or creates a hazard for vehicular or pedestrian traffic, or in a manner that obstructs access to an adjacent private property.”
I read it again. “…in a manner that obstructs access to an adjacent private property.”
“Mark, look at this,” I said, spinning the laptop around. He leaned in and read the paragraph. A slow smile spread across his face.
“Well, I’ll be,” he said. “That’s pretty clear.”
It was more than clear; it was a weapon. Walt’s entire argument, his smug “public easement” defense, was utter nonsense. He wasn’t just being a jerk; he was breaking a city ordinance. I bookmarked the page and saved a PDF of the code to my desktop. I felt a grim satisfaction settle over me. The rules were on my side. Now, I just needed to figure out how to use them.
The Blizzard Warning
A week later, the weather forecasters started using words like “historic” and “crippling.” A blizzard was churning its way across the Midwest, a swirling vortex on the radar maps, and our quiet suburb was directly in its path. They were predicting two feet of snow, fifty-mile-per-hour winds, and white-out conditions.
The whole neighborhood buzzed with a kind of manic energy. People were stocking up on milk and bread, topping off their gas tanks, and digging out their emergency candles. For most, it was a source of anxious excitement. For me, it was the setup for the ultimate showdown. Two feet of snow, blown by Walt’s Orange Beast, wouldn’t just be a wall; it would be a fortress.
“This is going to be the one,” I told Mark as we brought in an extra load of firewood. “This is when he’s going to bury me for good.”
“So what are you going to do?” he asked, stacking logs by the hearth. “Call the cops in the middle of a blizzard?”
“I don’t know yet,” I admitted. The ordinance was one thing, but enforcing it during a state of emergency felt like a long shot. I needed something more. A preemptive strike. “I was thinking… what about a snow fence?”
Mark paused, a log in his hand. “One of those orange plastic things? Our HOA would have a fit.”
“Our HOA can’t even get people to stop putting their trash cans out a day early,” I countered. “And it would only be for the winter. We could put it right on the property line. A physical barrier. He can’t blow snow through a fence.”
He considered it, his brow furrowed. He hated confrontation, but seeing my face after my talk with Walt had shifted something in him. He’d seen the blatant disrespect. “It would be a pretty aggressive move, Eli. There’s no coming back from that.”
“I’m not interested in coming back,” I said, my voice quiet but firm. “I’m interested in getting out of my own damn driveway.”
We didn’t buy the fence. The storm was coming too fast. But the idea had been planted. A line was about to be drawn.
The Confrontation in the White-Out
The storm hit at 4 a.m. It didn’t just snow; it was a horizontal assault. The wind howled like a wounded animal, rattling the windows and driving sheets of white past the streetlights. By midday, the world outside was gone, erased by a swirling, blinding chaos. We’d lost power an hour ago.
Around 2 p.m., through the deafening shriek of the wind, I heard a familiar, hateful roar. I couldn’t believe it. He was out there. In the middle of a blizzard, Walt was firing up The Orange Beast.
I pulled on my boots, my heavy coat, my hat and gloves, my heart hammering against my ribs. This was it. This was beyond the pale.
“What are you doing?” Mark yelled over the wind as I opened the mudroom door.
“I’m going to talk to him,” I yelled back, though ‘talk’ wasn’t the right word. I grabbed the heavy-duty metal shovel leaning by the door and stepped out into the maelstrom.
The wind nearly knocked me off my feet. I could barely see ten feet in front of me. The snow was a disorienting vortex, but the sound of the engine guided me. I trudged toward the end of my driveway, leaning into the wind.
There he was, a ghostly orange figure in the white-out, wrestling his machine. He had the chute aimed directly at my driveway, and a torrent of snow was blasting out, already creating a massive drift. I planted my feet, my blood running hot despite the arctic air, and walked right into the spray, holding the metal shovel in front of me like a shield.
I jammed the blade of the shovel directly into the mouth of the chute. The machine bucked and screamed, the engine choking as the metal blade blocked the exit. Snow and ice backfired, hitting Walt in the chest.
He cut the engine. The sudden silence was more shocking than the noise. In the howling wind, we stood there, two figures squared off in the apocalypse. He pulled down his face mask, his eyes wide with disbelief, then narrowing into slits of pure rage.
I didn’t shout. My voice came out low, calm, and lethal. “Point that thing at your lawn.”
He stared at me, flakes of snow melting on his furious, red face. Then, a slow, condescending grin spread across his lips. It was the most infuriating expression I had ever seen.
“Public easement, sweetheart.”
He reached for the ignition cord. The battle was just beginning.
The Cold War: The Line in the Snow
I didn’t move. I just held the shovel in place, my arms trembling with adrenaline. He stared at me, his grin faltering as he realized I wasn’t backing down. The wind whipped around us, a physical manifestation of the animosity between us.
“Get your damn shovel out of my machine before you break it,” he snarled.
“Move your damn snow off my property before I break you,” I shot back, the words tasting like ice and metal.
We were at a stalemate. A ridiculous, frozen tableau in the middle of a historic blizzard. Finally, with a curse that was snatched away by the wind, he wrenched the chute’s directional handle, aiming the torrent of future snow away from my driveway and toward the street. It was a concession, but not a surrender. I pulled my shovel back, the metal screeching against the plastic chute.
I trudged back to the house, my entire body shaking. Mark met me at the door, his face pale with worry. “Are you okay? I saw the whole thing.”
“I’m fine,” I said, though I felt anything but. The confrontation had left a sour, metallic taste in my mouth. It hadn’t solved anything; it had just escalated it.
The next morning, the world was silent and buried. The blizzard had passed, leaving behind a stunning, sun-drenched landscape of white. And a mountain of snow at the end of my driveway, courtesy of the city plows and Walt’s pre-confrontation assault. But something had changed. The fight was no longer just in my head.
“That’s it,” I told Mark, pulling up the Home Depot website on my phone. “We’re building a wall.”
Two days later, after the main roads were clear, we went and bought a hundred-foot roll of bright orange safety fencing and a dozen T-posts. That Saturday, we spent the afternoon driving the posts into the frozen ground along our property line, a grim, determined team. We stretched the plastic mesh between them, pulling it taut. It was ugly. It was garish. It screamed “neighbor dispute” to the entire world. And it was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. It was a line in the snow, a boundary he could not ignore.
A Neighbor’s Scrutiny
The fence changed the entire dynamic of the street. It was impossible to miss. It was a fluorescent orange declaration that diplomacy had failed. I saw people slow their cars as they drove by, their heads turning. I saw neighbors peeking through their curtains. I felt a hot flush of embarrassment, but it was quickly cooled by a wave of defiance. I hadn’t started this. I was just finishing it.
Walt’s reaction was one of theatrical silence. He would get his mail and make a great show of not looking at the fence, his jaw tight. He’d get in his truck and back out of his driveway with his eyes fixed straight ahead. But I could feel his gaze on the house, on the fence, a palpable weight of resentment.
He started testing it. He’d use his Orange Beast right up to the very edge of the fence, the snow-spray peppering the orange mesh like shotgun pellets. He was sending a message: I see your boundary, and I despise it.
The social pressure began to mount. At the community mailbox, another neighbor, Dave from across the street, tried to make a joke of it. “Putting up a border wall, Eliza? Making the neighborhood great again?” he asked with a chuckle.
I didn’t laugh. “Just trying to keep my driveway clear, Dave,” I said, my tone flat. The encounter left me feeling shaky. Was I the crazy one? Was I the neighborhood problem? The self-doubt was a corrosive acid, eating at my resolve. I had to remind myself of the blocked driveway, the missed meeting, the condescending smirk, the word “sweetheart.” This wasn’t about being popular; it was about being able to leave my own house.
The Digital Diary
My project manager instincts kicked into high gear. If this was a war, I needed documentation. I created a new folder on my laptop: “Project Snowbank.” Inside, I started a log.
I created a document titled “W. Miller – Snow Deposition Log.” The first entry was a summary of the blizzard confrontation. Date: January 14. Time: Approx. 2:15 PM. Event: In-person confrontation during blizzard. W. Miller actively depositing snow from his property onto ours. Blocked snowblower chute with shovel to cease activity. Verbal exchange. W. Miller refused to stop, citing “public easement.” Ceased only after prolonged standoff.
After installing the fence, the entries became more frequent. I started taking pictures with my phone, the timestamps enabled. Date: January 21. Time: 8:05 AM. Event: W. Miller operating snowblower. See attached image IMG_5821.jpg. Note heavy accumulation of snow directly against the new fence line. Deliberate action.
I even took short videos, capturing the plume of snow hitting the orange mesh, proving the direction and intent. The folder grew. It had photos, videos, a link to the city ordinance, and my meticulously updated log. It felt slightly insane, spying on my own neighbor, but it also felt powerful. I was no longer just a frustrated victim. I was building a case. I was collecting data points. I was managing the problem, turning chaos into ordered, actionable information. Mark thought I was a little obsessive, but he didn’t try to stop me. He’d seen the look on Walt’s face during the blizzard, too.
An Unexpected Ally
A few days later, I was taking out the recycling when I saw Carol, the elderly woman who lived two houses down, walking her little terrier. She was a quiet woman who I’d only ever exchanged pleasantries with. As she drew near, she slowed down, her eyes glancing at the orange fence. I braced myself for another awkward comment.
Instead, she gave me a small, conspiratorial smile. “Good for you,” she said, her voice a low whisper.
I was so surprised I just blinked at her. “I’m sorry?”
“The fence,” she said, nodding toward it. “Walt. He’s been a menace for years. He did the same thing to the Hendersons, the people who lived in your house before you. Drove them nuts. They were too timid to do anything about it.” She patted my arm. “Don’t let anyone make you feel bad for standing up for yourself.”
The little dog yapped, and she gave a final, encouraging nod before continuing on her way. I stood there by my recycling bin, stunned. A wave of relief washed over me so profound it almost brought tears to my eyes.
I wasn’t crazy. I wasn’t the problem.
Carol’s quiet validation was like a shot of adrenaline to my soul. It solidified my resolve. My digital diary, my ugly orange fence—they weren’t acts of aggression. They were acts of self-preservation. And I was completely, utterly justified.
The Final Thaw: The Next Storm, The Next Test
Two weeks passed in a state of cold, silent truce. The orange fence stood sentinel. Walt continued his passive-aggressive snow-blowing, always pushing the limits, but never crossing the now-visible line. The weather was mercifully calm. But we all knew it was temporary. February in Ohio is a cruel mistress.
The forecast for the first weekend of the month called for a “significant winter weather event.” A foot of wet, heavy snow, the kind that sticks to everything and weighs a ton. This was it. This was the test. The fence was a deterrent, but it wasn’t impenetrable. A man with a machine as powerful as Walt’s could, if he was determined enough, simply blow the snow over the four-foot fence.
The night before the storm, I reviewed my “Project Snowbank” folder. I had the city ordinance PDF ready. I had the phone number for the Northwood Code Enforcement office saved in my contacts. I had a dozen time-stamped photos and videos. I felt like a lawyer preparing for trial.
The snow started falling around midnight. I woke up to a world blanketed and muffled. And by 8 a.m., I heard it. The familiar, hateful roar of The Orange Beast.
I went to the window, my phone in my hand, my heart rate kicking up a notch. Mark stood beside me, a silent partner in my vigil. Walt began his routine, clearing the top of his driveway. Then he started his approach toward the street, toward the fence. He reached the property line. He paused. For a heart-stopping second, I thought he might actually aim it at his own lawn.
But his malice was stronger than his reason. He tilted the chute upward, aiming high. He gunned the engine. A massive arc of pulverized snow flew up, over the top of my orange fence, and rained down in a thick, wet slushy mess across the end of my driveway. He was making a statement. Your rules, your boundaries, they mean nothing to me.
The Call
I didn’t rage. I didn’t yell. A strange, glacial calm settled over me. He had just handed me the final piece of evidence.
I hit record on my phone, capturing a clear video of the plume of snow originating on his property, flying over the fence, and landing squarely on mine. I filmed for a full thirty seconds, making sure to pan over to his orange-clad figure manning the machine. It was undeniable. It was perfect.
“Okay,” I said, my voice steady. “That’s it.”
I walked to the kitchen, phone still in hand. I pulled up the number for code enforcement. Mark watched me, his expression a mixture of anxiety and pride. “You’re really doing it?”
“I’m really doing it,” I confirmed. I pressed the call button.
A bored-sounding dispatcher answered. “Northwood City Services.”
“Hello,” I said, my voice polite and professional, the same voice I used with difficult clients. “I’d like to report a violation of city ordinance 521.06, regarding the deposition of snow.”
I gave her my name and address. “My neighbor at 114 Maple Drive is actively using a snowblower to deposit all of his driveway’s snow onto my property, blocking my access to the street.”
There was a pause, and some typing. “Okay, ma’am. Is this an ongoing issue?”
“It has been for six years,” I said. “But it is happening as we speak. I have video evidence of the violation in progress.”
That seemed to get her attention. “Okay. We have an officer on duty. I can dispatch him, but with the road conditions, it may take him a while to get there.”
“That’s fine,” I said, looking out the window at Walt, who was still happily burying my driveway. “He’s very methodical. I don’t think he’s going anywhere.”
The Officer and the Ordinance
Twenty-five minutes later, a large city-branded pickup truck with a plow on the front rolled slowly down our street and pulled up between our houses. A man in a heavy city-issued jacket got out. He stood for a moment, taking in the scene: Walt, mid-blast; the plume of snow sailing over the garish orange fence; the resulting mountain of slush on my driveway. The evidence was presenting itself.
The officer, a burly man with a tired expression, walked over to Walt, who finally noticed the truck and cut his engine. The sudden silence was filled with a new tension.
I watched from my living room window as the officer spoke. I couldn’t hear the words, but I could read the body language. Walt started talking, gesturing wildly. He pointed at my house, at the fence, at the street. I could almost hear him spitting out the words “public easement.”
The officer listened patiently, his hands on his hips. When Walt was finished with his tirade, the officer just shook his head slowly. He pulled out a small, laminated card from his pocket and showed it to Walt, pointing to a line of text. I knew exactly what it was. It was my beautiful, glorious ordinance.
Walt’s face went from red to a pasty white. He looked from the card to the officer to the mess he had made. The fight visibly drained out of him, replaced by a sullen, childish pout. The officer spoke for another minute, then pulled out a ticket book.
He handed Walt a slip of paper. Walt snatched it from his hand. The officer then pointed at the massive snowbank on my property. More words were exchanged. Walt threw his hands up in the air in a gesture of pure, defeated frustration. He looked over at my house then, his eyes locking with mine through the window. There was no grin now. Only a look of impotent fury.
A Quiet Victory
The officer got back in his truck and drove away. Walt stood there for a long time, staring at the ticket in his hand. Then, with a defeated slump to his shoulders, he wheeled The Orange Beast back into his garage and slammed the door.
An hour later, a private landscaping truck with a skid-steer loader on a trailer pulled up. Walt had been forced to call and pay for a private removal service—and per the officer’s instructions, I got to choose the company from an approved city list. I’d picked the most expensive one. The one with the best reviews.
I watched as the little machine efficiently and quickly scooped up every last bit of the heavy, wet snow he had deposited and loaded it into a dump truck. They cleared it right down to the pavement. It was perfect, petty, life-ruining justice. The fine for the violation was $250. The bill for the emergency private snow removal, I later learned from a chatty Dave-across-the-street, was over five hundred dollars.
A week later, we got another dusting. Three inches of light, fluffy powder. I made myself a cup of tea and settled in by the window to watch the show.
At 9 a.m. sharp, Walt’s garage door opened. He wheeled out The Orange Beast. He started it up, the roar now sounding less menacing and more pathetic. He began his first pass. He reached the property line. He stopped.
And then, with a slow, deliberate movement that spoke of deep, abiding resentment, he reached down and cranked the handle of the chute, aiming it inward, onto his own pristine, salt-free, perfect lawn. He spent the next hour spraying his own property with snow, burying the turf he held so dear.
I didn’t smile. I didn’t feel a surge of triumphant joy. I just took a slow sip of my tea and felt the quiet, profound relief of a boundary finally, and completely, respected. The blizzard was over.
About the Author
