February 1992, South Strafford, Vermont

By Corey Cook

The two of us sat in the front of the gray truck. The radio was off, and warm air wafted from the vents. Frost heaves caused the seat springs to squeak as my father drove to his first driveway.

The orange light on top of the truck went around and around and around, causing snowflakes to pause in midair. Wipers went right, left, right, left, right, left.

It was February. I was 12. The snow had fallen all day, and after supper, Dad said he was going to plow his driveways, as the forecast called for more of the same.

For some strange reason, I heard his proclamation. I guess my ears were free of headphones. My stereo wasn’t playing Arrested Development’s “Tennessee.” I hadn’t yet bought “What’s Up” by the 4 Non Blondes. Perhaps I was just trying to avoid rousing the algebra book that hibernated in my backpack.

For whatever reason, I asked if I could go. After a moment, he said, “I don’t see why not.” We waded through the knee-deep snow to the truck, the engine turned over, and we were on our way.

The first driveway wasn’t much of a driveway at all. My father lowered the plow, drove forward, lifted the plow, drove backward, and we were done.

On our way to the second driveway, I glanced over at him. His face was illuminated by the console lights. His mustache was perched above his thin upper lip. His dry, callused hands held the steering wheel. Hands that knew nothing but work.

I glanced at him and felt the need to say something but didn’t know what. What to say to the man who disapproved of how late I slept on the weekends, of how much time I lounged around on the couch watching MTV and of how often I played Super Mario Bros. and won. So I just sat and watched the snowflakes strike the windshield.

The second was a long dirt driveway. The engine strained as the plow bounced off of ruts and rocks in the road. Snow spewed off the left side of the plow as some rolled over it onto the windshield. The wipers pushed and scraped until the glass was clear once again.

“Dad, how much do you charge per driveway?” I asked.

“It depends on the length of the driveway and the family.”

“What do you mean?” I continued.

“Some families don’t have much money, so I don’t charge them much.”

We continued on. My father lowered and raised the plow. Shifted gears. Quiet and methodical in his work. I sat and stared out of the passenger-side window as my mind drifted to my algebra book, with its brown paper bag cover. To the upcoming dance at the gymnasium. To how badly my basketball team played a couple nights before – so bad, our coach flung his clipboard in the locker room at halftime, causing us to hold our hands in front of our faces as the clipboard bounced off of the cement floor. To Morgan Freeman wielding his giant sword in Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves.

The plow struck a rock, and sparks shot out in front of us. My father was opening up the last of his driveways. After making several passes, he backed out and headed for home. The snow was falling fast. It was as if we were driving through sheets and sheets and sheets of giant gauze.

“I have to make one more stop,” my father said before clearing his throat.

“OK.”

He dropped the plow before swinging into the driveway of an elderly neighbor. As we backed up after the second pass, we noticed the woman standing in the window. She stood there and smiled. She waved her splotchy, wrinkled hand, the loose skin on her arm flapping.

“How much do you charge her, Dad?”

“Nothing,” he answered as he waved back.

The truck jerked forward. I swiveled my head and watched our neighbor get smaller and smaller and smaller. After we rounded the corner by the church, I turned to face my father. He was shifting gears and staring straight ahead. The truck turned right and climbed the short, steep hill to our house.

My father parked the truck and slid out. I sat in the cab a few seconds more and watched him trudge through the snow. Watched the man I wanted to become forge ahead. And smiled at him. The smile that was not seen by anyone else until just now.

Corey Cook grew up in Vermont and now lives in New Hampshire with his wife. His poems have appeared in The Aurorean, Entelechy International, Ibbetson Street Press, Nerve Cowboy, Pearl, Ship of Fools, and Taproot Literary Review, and one of his short stories was posted by Ad Hoc Monadnock Online.

Posted by Elizabeth Armstrong Moore on Thursday, June 21st, 2007 | Email This Post

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