Henry Snowman

"There is a heavy snow brewing over the Great Lakes. It should reach the Cleveland metropolitan area around Thursday afternoon. Please prepare yourself for a nasty one out there."

After hearing those dooming words from the NBC13 weather gal, Henry slowly rose from his worn-out chocolate brown recliner and sauntered to the living room window, abruptly snapping off the television knob as he passed. 

Peering up at the murky, unforgiving sky he muttered, "Freakin' snow. I gotta get out of this place."

He said that same thing every winter for 3 years. While he could handle a light dusting, he hated when snow removal required a shovel instead of a broom; rarely did a broom suffice in Cleveland.

Part of the reason that he had moved into the tiny two-bedroom ranch on the westernmost part of the city was the yard. He loved flowers, the planting and the tending to. He also loved to mow the grass, taking pride in the glory of his green grass and symmetrically mowed yard lines. Often he could be heard bragging to neighbors of his glorious greenery. 

"Looks like a football field, don't it?" He would proudly declare to whoever would humor him with a quick conversation.

But he thoroughly despised snow. Not only did the tiny white terrorists destroy his highly adored yard, but it also wreaked havoc on his legs and back. 

It wasn't just the physical toll of shoveling, though. His wife Edna has always loved the snow. Whenever snow had begun to fall, she had always acted like an eager child awaiting a ride on a carousel. She couldn't wait to frolic about in it. She had always been the first in the area to decorate for the holidays and the last to return to normal decor. 

Even at 75, she had loved to be in the snow, digging away with her own tiny silver shovel that Henry had bought for her on a fishing trip to the border waters. It was larger than a baby shovel, but about half of the size and weight of a standard issue. Edna had laughed and laughed when she had opened it. 

Henry often looked at the shovel, sitting idly on the work bench in the attached two-car garage, waiting to be plunged into the fresh snow. But he never picked it up. It wouldn't have been fair to the tiny thing.

Henry felt a lot like that shovel.