Spring, or at least March

I want to get a bunch of old Barack Obama signs, the ones that say “Yes we can,” and affix the words “shovel our sidewalks.”  I’d carry them with me, and poke one into the snow next to every unshoveled walk–or worse, every walk where somebody waited a day and then used a blower to buff the ice to a lovely but deadly shine.  Maybe I’d build a little snowman to hold the sign, like the ones they planted around the Capitol.
The jolly snow-lovers of Christmastime turn petulant in March.  They’re getting e-mails from friends and relatives who are somewhere along the crocus-daffodil-tulip continuum, at a time when we’re lucky to see mud.

I can see  why someone might balk at the idea of shoveling.  The snow, they hope, will all melt soon, and so they ignore it–as if being rude to snow would make it go away.


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