Every summer Ken and I talk about buying a snowblower, but we only ever talk about it.

Since 2007, (the year we bought our home) we’ve stayed faithful to our shovels.

We have a horseshoe driveway that’s big enough to hold 10 cars, so a full removal (plus the clearing of two cars) is a good two-person, hour-long workout.

Especially when it’s snowman snow.  The heavy packing kind.

Yesterday, Ken and I got in two workouts.

The first was late in the afternoon – a full family shovel with our son moving Tonka Truckloads of the white stuff from one side of the yard to the other.  The second was closer to bedtime, with Briggs warm and happy on the couch watching America’s Funniest Home Videos, and Ken and I again working our way down separate sides of the cold covered drive.

The temperature was just slightly above freezing, so technically it wasn’t snowing but it was doing more than raining, and I had on too many layers, so I was sweating.

By the time I reached the end (which is in fact the beginning) of my side – where the plows had been driving and pushing piles for hours – I was soaked from the inside out.  My arms were junk.  I looked around and noticed that Ken and I were the only shovelers on the street.

A pickup with a plow passed by and I thought:

Man, wouldn’t it be awesome if he saw me here at the hardest part and just decided to clear it for me?

Then I dug in.  Cleared just one full, heavy shovel load and kept thinking:

Really, if I wanted to, I could knock on either of our neighbors’ doors and they’d let us use their snowblowers.   And, if we really needed someone to come plow us out that could happen, too, but we’re already here…now…with shovels.

Then, I cleared one more full, heavy shovel load.  Then another.  And another.  And I heard Ken doing the same on the other side.

And suddenly, I wasn’t so focused on how to make this job any easier or quicker.  I simply gave in to the gratitude for having everything we needed to get the job done, together.