Opportunity Strikes
With a comical curious eye, I tracked “Winter Storm Blair” moving across the U.S., wondering about the specificity of ground zero. Where will it hit, who will it hit and how much will it unload?
The nonsensical side of me was a little jealous that northeast Nebraska would only be on the fringe of the mayhem. A little chaos was entertaining and I love to be entertained. But as my silent thoughts and prayers go out to the cold, hungry and lonely people in the world, I don't wish anyone to suffer from the frozen blast, hoping instead only to see Mother Nature when she’s mildly upset.
Phone calls and texts from family and friends living underneath the entire breath of the upper level disturbance popped up frequently throughout the day. The videos
and pictures of the carnage and/or the aftermath were soon to follow; undoubtedly more will arrive when daylight appears.
The desire to boast about our collective experiences here – locally, with such weather phenomena were laid to rest, deciding that they all should have their own moments of delight or lament. Ours has yet to happen this year, but odds are it certainly will before the first thaw comes.
Ice? Nobody enjoys the ice. Travel is impossible, trees break, the power goes out; that would be near insanity. And except for its sparkling twinkle as it covers everything in glistening diamonds, it’s a pain in the “tuchus,” and unworthy of any esteem.
The snow back home is usually wet and heavy; this was not the case with "Blair." It was light and dry, perfect for the winds that were packing the punch behind it, driving nails through the thickest of clothing and piercing the skin - rare for them, not so much so for us.
But when larger accumulations would give lay a blanket of perhaps five inches or more, and the moisture content was high, it was time for the businessman side of me to go into action.
I never was a fan of the Ford tractors we acquired when dad purchased the farm, preferring instead to get a John Deere or an International like the other kids; my dreams remained silent, knowing they’d be denied without any consideration. The farm was only a hobby and someplace to nestle us away during the summer to avoid other temptations. (* It didn’t.)
The six-foot blade that attached to the three point hitch on the rear of the tractor was manual: i.e. not hydraulic. If you wanted it swiveled in a different direction, you had to do it yourself. This created far too much work for a solo operator, so my best buddy Paul from across the cove was put into action.
Straddling the top frame work on the blade, his feet firmly planted, and
his arms stretched wide holding onto the fenders, we ventured off into the newer neighborhoods of the growing suburbia. A gold mine in white lay on the ground with visions of green bills folded in our coveralls awaited.
Soon after entering the subdivision and revving the engine a couple of times, the homeowners awakened. With eager enthusiasm to catch our attention as they pointed toward their driveways, we'd determine the size and slope of the chore ahead and holler our price. Only the most frugal or macho — white collar men among them, turned us down. The going rate averaged $20.
Backing into the drive and lowering the blade, Paul would twist and adjust the angle of the pull according to my directions; three or four swipes toward the street in three or four minutes were all it usually took. It wasn't perfection, but it certainly was progress and that’s all they were paying for.
Our gross income at the end of the day was split 60/30. My father would ask where his 10% was when we returned home. I told him I needed to refuel the tractor! He always let that slide. God bless him.
