In the tiny hamlet of Plainfield we got pummeled. When you combine the fact that I live on the top of a cul-du-sac, that sits at the highest point at the end of our street, my house got extra rocked. Snow drifts are naturally attracted to my driveway and back yard. The deepest ones were about five feet tall. The funniest moment of the morning was letting the dogs out for their morning relief. My 2 labs were in heaven jumping and thrashing in the fluffy whiteness. My Pekingese, Grace, ran straight into a drift.
This drift is 5 foot tall, and was just a foot from my patio door. Grace, who is all white, disappeared into the massive drift but came out bewildered, chunked with snow, but otherwise okay!
The dump of snow took me back to 1979 and 1999. They were polar opposites when they occurred in my life. The blizzard of 1979 was heaven for a kid. School was called off for a couple of days. I was 12 and eager to make some money off the back of old man winter. Dressed like the Marshmallow Man I started through the neighborhood, seeking out the homes of the elderly and lazy, practicing my sales pitch to shovel their drives. I trudged through the snow, sinking up to my hips with each heavy step.
Visions of a radio controlled car danced in my head as I counted my yet undeserved earnings, over and over again. I peeked back at the house. I had made it about 50 yards from our Mokena condo. I felt like a character out of a Jack London, Alaskan wilderness story. I wiped my nose on my glove, and turned once again to the vast Yukon of snow that lay ahead of me. The moisture from my breath was freezing on my Mexican Wrestler styled face mask. My eyes winced, peeping through the narrow slits. My face was growing an icy goatee.
I looked back again at my permanent campsite, 100 yards and counting. My legs became granite, punching their way through the snowy dunes that faced me. As I took each tiring step my drive and entrepreneurial spirit began to wain. "Who wants a stupid radio controlled car in the middle of winter?" My toes were chilled to tingling. My fingers wet and raw from the prerequisite snow bombs I was tossing around the street. I was certain I was miles from home and on the open road to riches. I glanced back once again. I was 150 yards from home.
I looked at the frozen carpet that faced me with fear and discouragement. I questioned if I was the right man for the mission. I looked forward and back to my homestead. I remembered Bozo would be coming on at lunch time and the debate began. "Bozo or big bucks, big bucks or Bozo?" My brain was on hyper drive nestled between my cool crispy ears. I turned, my decision made. I must go watch Bozo. My road to riches could wait another day. There would be comfort in the comical Bozo, even though I loathe clowns. Bozo was an exception. He was on TV, not in my living room. Retracing my steps I returned to our cute Mokena condo and began to warm up. I watched Bozo, careful not to sit too close to the TV, just in case.
1979 was the last winter of innocence for me. My introduction to alcohol was only months away. Fast forward to January 1, 1999. I was living in a transient hotel in Stone Park. My job in Melrose Park was an easy 2 mile drive. I was quick to work and quicker home so my daily party could begin. I was staying at The O'hare Kitchenette. It was strategically located next to a bar/liquor store that sold pretzels and Slim Jim's. All of an alcoholic's four food groups could be had there. The store had booze, beer, cigarettes and snacks. Alcoholic paradise.
There was a blizzard hitting on that start to January. I had no boots or winter coat. All of my possessions gathered could fill a couple of Walmart bags. It took about 20 minutes to fight the head wind and drifts that stood between me and my obsession. My sneakers soaked, the trip bitterly cold. I could see the drivers on Lagrange road looking at me like I was crazy. They were right. I made it to the store and gathered my provisions. 1 wwelve pack of cheap beer, 1 pint cheap vodka, 1 can of orange soda for chaser and 1 bag of pretzels to prevent throwing up the previously listed items.
I fought my way back to my temporary home and quickly downed the pint of vodka accompanied by the can of soda. I polished off the first beer and was struck with panic. I only had 11 beers left. What if the liquor store closes because of the blizzard pounding the area? What if I ran out of beer? That can't happen! The obsession and compulsion of alcoholism is unrelenting in the depths of addiction. The insane and absurd, from an earthling's point of view, are normalcy and common place to the drunk. I slipped on my wet shoes and summer coat and retraced my journey to the store. I purchased the same items I had picked up only an hour earlier. I was comforted that I had all I needed to get through the next few days.
Flash to February 2, 2011. The official Plainfield snow total was 18 inches. My estimation, 34 feet! My wife and son, whom I call Bro, are at home. School and work have been cancelled for them. It is just another day of searching for gigs for me. I looked forward to the day, picturing the three of us laughing and playing board games while roasting marshmallows and smores over the fireplace. Note to self: you are sober now and facing reality. Oh, what a day it was.
Our "idyllic" Rockwellesque day began quite pleasantly. We sipped coffee and watched the war footage of the blizzard on local TV. The morning passed and the reality of life and wife set upon me. My son bundled up and retreated to the back yard to create safe passage for the dogs to have room to get their business done. Each plop of snow rang in my ears like gun shots as my guilt for not helping him grew with each shovel toss. I knew he could handle it! He is 15 years old, 6'1" and 200 pounds. I am 45, weak and fragile in the cold. He is Goliath. I am an aged David with a heart attack phobia.
The pictures played like well edited movies in my mind. I am assisting the lad in the drive when a pain shoots up my arm. I fall into the drifts, clutching my chest. "Hear that Elizabeth? I'm coming to join you honey, with a guilt complex and frozen bottom!" I think I see my Dad. No that's just snow in my eyes. Who will miss me? Who will come to my funeral? I didn't call the mortgage payment in! Lord I'm coming home!
Another plunk snaps me out of my Sanford dream soliloquy. My wife is acting as if she is going to go out and help my son. I am trying to teach him a life lesson honey! Plus, I'm paying him! Do you really want me to help him and cut into his profits? There's a plunk on the outside, and an icy, emasculating cold front coming from Squeaky inside. I can not escape my fate. I hang my head low and pound up the stairs, like a spoiled child, to slip into my long johns and snow gear.
Armed with my shovel I join my son in the wintry battle. I toil for 10 minutes then sit for 5. The Fred Sanford visions are still haunting me. I secretly envy my buck-like son as he tosses the snow left and right like he's shoveling confetti. Why does my snow feel like granite? We attack the drive together. He tosses 3 shovelfulls for every one of mine. I find myself laughing with him. He has grown into a man. Our roles have reversed. When he was little he would use his tiny shovel to help me with snow removal, usually making more work for me, but his efforts appreciated. Now he has taken the lead.
After an hour or so, we have reached the end of the driveway and had cleared it of the Kilimanjaro mounds that once daunted us. I am happy to have spent the time with him. He is growing into a fine decent man. As we toss the last remnants from our mission onto the pile, we look across the cul-du-sac and realize, even though we have a clean drive the streets are still not cleared. We are still trapped in our home with a really clean driveway. We nod to each other, man code for a job well done. We return to the warmth of the house where my once icy queen has hot cocoa and coffee waiting for us. The blizzard of 2011 is one I won't soon forget and one I am glad to have shared with my son. My wife smiles at me with approval, my testosterone level replenished. I am sober, I am not homeless, I have a great family, and Bozo has been taken off the air. It has been a good day indeed.
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