Sunday morning, I’m all ready for church, attired in appropriately autumnal colors. I’m even reasonably on time. Before dashing out the door I remember that today’s high will be around 40, so I throw on a coat. First dose of reality, snow on the step. No big deal. Snow all over the car. Not too much snow, no big deal. But then I can’t find the snowscraper. Why oh why oh why do I go through this every year? I never take the snowscraper out of the car. I might move it from the back seat to the trunk in about June, but I don’t remove it from the car. My dear husband moves it when he loads the car for the annual week at the beach. (Yes, this is all his fault.) And, of course, in August no one (that would be me) thinks to put it back in the car.
So here it is, Sunday October 30, and all I have in the car is a little hand scraper. The search begins. I know it must be in the mudroom because that’s where everything gets thrown. And herein lies the problem. Everything gets thrown in the mudroom. If you’ve been to our house any day of the year except Thanksgiving, you know what the mudroom looks like…twenty pairs of shoes in various sizes, beekeeping equipment, hunting gear, a crossbow, dead plants, boxes of IBM equipment, dirty gardening gloves…you get the idea. And somewhere in the accumulation is an ice scraper.
After screaming at the top of my lungs (you can do things like that when you live way out in the woods), I calm down and scan the mudroom. The dusty icescraper lies just behind the pile of shoes. Fine. I’ll scrape the car and be on my way. Ten minutes late is about normal for me.
But no. Why would this be simple? The mere two inches of snow on the car has hardened into a solid chunk. I hack at the windshield and get that clear, but the roof is a solid sheet of frozen ammunition. I am not one of those people who drive down 83 shooting ice bombs from the roof of my car. With the sun shining, it’s a sure bet that my sheet of ice would fly off at 65 miles an hour. Plus, I am now half an hour late for church. Really, why bother?
Back in the house I stomp. Upstairs I march. Off come the church clothes. On go the sweats. Well, at least I have an outfit ready for tomorrow.