30. Random Acts of Kindness
I woke this morning a little past four. A soft snow was falling — tiny flakes twirled about, caught occasionally by the light of a near shrouded moon. There was an inch or two of fluff already on the ground and the perfect amount sticking to barren hardwood tree branches and full evergreens. Porch lights in the distance illuminated the scene with the mood of a Thomas Kinkade painting — and I was a living, breathing part of the idyllic picture.
It was wonderful.
Schools across Worcester County were staying closed because this snowstorm was going to be the first plowable one of the 2021-2022 winter season. It’s January, and thus far we’ve had only two dusting snowfall events, one of which fell Christmas Eve. It was perfect, as you can imagine.
I think it’s safe to say that New Englanders have a love/hate relationship with snow. Deep down, we love it and willingly spend hours watching icy flakes of white flutter past frosted window panes, landing with a hush, and becoming part of a landscape that captures and just won’t let go.
Then there’s this freakin part.
Snow removal.
Ass-high snow drifts are not for the faint of heart — they require strategic planning on how best to handle them. First, there’s the bundling up to keep warm and dry in the outdoor elements. A set of long underwear is the best first layer, coupled with at least two pairs of socks, then comes the pants and shirt, and the layering of a sweatshirt, then the scarf, hat, gloves, boots, and coat — preferably a wool or a puffy jacket with thermal lining.
As soon as the donning ritual is done, it’s time to commence the attack. First off: the shoveling of stairs and sidewalks — a very important part of snow removal. Entrance ways are essential and should be brought to bare-pavement and sanded before you move on to the two or three snow-covered vehicles that have to be cleaned off, heated up and moved, before the backbreaking shoveling or snow blowing of driveways can begin.
Swearing is now permissible.
By the time New Englanders get to their cars, the white wonderfulness of winter has started to wane and the bitching, moaning, and groaning has begun. The shift in attitude doesn’t usually take hold until The First Plowable Snowfall arrives. The initial caps are intentional — The First Plowable Snowfall is a titled event. As soon as rumors begin about an approaching snowstorm, New Englanders gather around televisions to watch weather forecasts with the same commitment and fervor as when they congregate for a game of their favorite sports teams.
Hairy eyeballs and warning grunts hush any who threaten to interrupt the call of projected inches — or feet — of the ‘light and fluffy’ or ‘wet and packed’ winter precip expected along the 495 and Mass Pike corridors. All of the shushing is really unnecessary because expected snow amounts are announced ad nauseum and go like this: “Three to five inches on the Cape, six to ten in Central Mass, and over a foot in Western Mass.” Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Then. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Then …
As far as I’m concerned, one announcement should suffice because word of mouth kicks into high gear causing phones to ring and cells to buzz, chirp, or sing text alerts about the incoming assault.
When the first snowflake falls, the real frenzy begins. Reporters from All Points Massachusetts head outside dressed in television station apparel and carrying two things — a microphone and a ruler. Then, for the duration of the storm, the fools freeze their asses off for the sole purpose of sticking a ruler into the snow to prove that there’s 4.2” in Chatham, and 6.9” in Worcester, and 11.3” in Chicopee.
Back in the day, we’d simply check to see how high up a reporter’s leg the snow went — ankle boot high = 4.2”, to the top of a boot = 6.9”, anywhere near the knee = knee-high snow.
DUH.
I don’t know when or why the ‘powers that be’ at television stations decided residents of Massachusetts needed precise measurements when all we really need to know are four things: how much snow is expected — when it is going to start — are schools canceled — and what time the storm will end. We don’t need or want ‘around the clock’ television coverage of the snow actually falling — and we don’t care if Norwood has an inch more than it did two hours ago — and we don’t want to witness an idiot reporter nearly being hit by a slip-sliding driver whilst said reporter is bent at the waist and measuring snow that’s not yet knee-high deep.
My personal opinion is this: reporters shouldn’t be allowed to measure until a yardstick is required. Watching a 3’ long piece of wood being pulled from the sleeve of a snow-covered fool on the eastbound side of the Mass Pike might make for interesting T.V. — just saying.
That ramble felt good.
Now, a bit of geography. Tim and I live in Worcester at the crest of a hill on Wildwood Avenue, a private street of cozy capes, rambling ranches, and good-sized duplexes. Our place is set way back from the road which means we have a very long driveway.
For years, a decade or more really, John McTigue, our across-the-street neighbor and Tim’s cousin, did the snow removal of our driveway — for no reason other than he is a really nice guy who got a snowblower one year and took it upon himself to spend a big-ass amount of time clearing snow from his place and then from our place. Tim offered payment for service whilst on grateful bent knee, but there wasn’t ever anything expected from us.
John and Joyce semi-retired to Maine a few years back and took their handy-dandy snowblower with them — I wondered if their move had anything to do with the plowing of 183 — though I know their relocation was so they’d be near the ocean — at Wells Beach — my favorite place in all the world, though I admit I’ve been very few places in all the world.
Anyway, as soon as John left, a second snowplow miracle happened. Matt Hanlon, Tim’s nephew, moved in next door and started plowing the driveway. For a couple of years, in the dead of night, he’d plow our troubles away. His helpful deed ended when Matt and his wife, Brenna, and son, Shaun, moved to the West Side — the swanky side of Worcester. I don’t know if there’s an official city ordinance banning parked plow trucks along beautiful tree lined streets in the 01609 zip code, but I think it’s very plausible. For whatever reason Matt put his plowing days behind him, and I say good for you — now go out and play in the snow with your son.
As a result of the Hanlon move across town, the O’Briens of Wildwood found themselves with a snow removal dilemma on their hands — the seriousness of which played second fiddle to the whole wife-has-cancer thing. Without mentioning the dilemma to anyone, another winter miracle came via text from Helena and Paul McCarthy, longtime friends of my sister, Marjorie. Helena texted to say Paul would plow our driveway, and no, they didn’t want payment — they just wanted to do something to help during this difficult time.
And when they couldn’t come one day, our next door neighbor, Rick Earls, pushed his snowblower up and down our drive because he, too, is a really nice guy who wanted to lighten our load.
Tim and I extend our heartfelt thanks to these snow-warriors.
Yummy offerings.
Vegetable soup - Sheila. Tapioca pudding - Annie. Butternut squash soup - Kathy. Warm cookies - Faith. Banana bread - Debbie. Chocolate-covered strawberries - Eileen. Baskets of crackers and candies - Joyce. Caramel apples - Dave. Christmas cookies - Linda. Tins of fudge - Denise. Pizzelle cookies and apple breads - Nicole. Apple pies - Don and Mom. Jams and jellies - Santa? I have no idea who left an array of fruit spreads on the front stoop, but thank you!
There may have been others who stopped by with yummy treats, and if I neglected to mention you, I’m very sorry. Every tasty and nutritious tidbit was so appreciated. As I’ve mentioned, I haven’t been in my kitchen to prepare anything since the beginning of December — and on many occasions I’ve been too nauseated to eat much of anything, so a bit of soup, or bowl of tapioca pudding, or a cookie, or a cracker smeared with jam has been my breakfast, lunch or dinner. And when I’ve had an appetite, Tim has used gift cards for takeout and for GrubHub delivery thoughtfully sent from his friends at work.
Tim and I extend our thanks to these culinary-caregivers.
Sights, sounds, and softness.
I have a gorgeous picture in my living room of a snowy lane leading to a beautiful, wooded area. There’s enough light in the painting to suggest a midday stroll is in order — one that might reward the traveler with a plop or two of snow melt from the burdened trees, or the company of a bunny or lunching deer in the winter wonderland. The painting is sheer perfection and evokes a sense of tranquility. I was given the pleasure of naming the piece, and since the artist is of Irish descent, I’ve chosen Lána Suaimhneas. I’ve decided that my last moments on earth will be upon that lane — and the final walk of my life will be beautiful and peaceful. ~ Thank you Jennifer Lane Courville.
I received a wonderfully imaginative piece of art and had Tim hang it in my kitchen. Though I am unable to spend time there, I purposefully had it put on a wall I’m able to see whenever I get to move from my chair. The artwork is very unique, and very creative. My understanding is that the artist uses recycled wood that is intricately pieced together to make a 3D image that becomes part of a hand-painted background. I probably botched that description, but I’m giving myself an ‘A’ for effort. My picture is a vine of beautiful Morning Glory flowers inching their way up a naturally weathered window shutter. The use of the shutter as a base is brilliant, and the blue beauties, a personal favorite of mine, are full of wonderful whimsy. ~ Thank you Phil Gagnon.
I have an adorable stuffed unicorn friend that arrived holding a lovely blue rose and a wonderfully thoughtful card. It came from a woman I’ve never met, the mother of Guru Jessica. When she learned her daughter was doing the website design for an author, she did what most moms would do — she got in on the fun and gave my books a read. Her lovely card offered warm thoughts about my situation, and she made it a point to say she enjoyed my books and my blog — what writer doesn’t like hearing that? This lovely, kind woman took time to send something for me to hold onto and to bring me comfort. ~ Thank you Linda Charpentier Christina.
I have a beautiful lap throw made by my sister-in-law — the one who could make an entire wedding gown out of a linen napkin, a piece of ribbon, and a spool of thread. This seamstress is like the MacGyver of the sewing world and I’d venture to guess that every member of the O’Brien clan has had her fix a hem, take in — or let out a seam, or make something fit better than it did before. As I sit here, alternating between typing and running my hand up and down the soft cloth throw, I smile wide at her talent and appreciate her kindness. ~ Thank you Michele O’Brien.
Things to pass the time.
When I tire of writing, I do some reading. I’ve received books, and many, many, many cards sent by friends I used to see with regularity, and some who I haven’t seen in years. A good number of the pretty paper expressions of thoughtfulness have come from people I don’t know, but who know someone in my family, or have joined a prayer group, which is so lovely in thought and sentiment.
The cards I spend the most time reading are from my editor, The Warden. Each contains a quote from books I’ve written, so they run the gamut — funny, saucy, emotional, or fraught with tension, and they have wonderful, written thoughts of the woman who knows my work as well as I do. Her little notes are about life, and about our working relationship, and they mean the world to me.
I recently became pen pals with my former publisher — a woman who knows a great deal about ‘her’ author, but I’ve been at a disadvantage — I knew some stuff, but didn’t know the important stuff about The Goddess of the Publishing World. I love that she responded with an immediate, “Yes,” when I asked her to tell me tales about her life.
Books, cards, and emails help fill the long hours and take me away from my troubled thoughts. ~ Thank you Linda McTigue Bushee, Andria Flores, and Nancy Pendleton.
New routines.
At the end of the tucking-in process at night I ask Tim to give me my stones – one isn’t a stone, but it looks like one (I’ll explain later). I take the first stone, a palm-sized, naturally smoothed piece that has a cross etched into the center of it. I place it on my chest and leave it there. The second ‘stone’ — which is actually a rounded piece of petrified wood that’s been buffed and treated with shellac finds its way into my tightened-hand. The multi-shaded brown ‘stone’ is silky smooth and perfect for rubbing my thumb over — which is what I do every night while I’m falling asleep.
These nightly rituals bring me peace. They help me feel less afraid — and I love them. ~ Thank you Father Steuterman and Kevin Mullaney.
Sights and sounds of life and love.
Every evening as I fall asleep, I listen to and watch two cell phone videos. The first video is one I made on what has become my last trip to Wells Beach. It lasts a little more than a minute. It was taken at sunrise and at low tide — and each time I look at it, I see something new and different. The second video was made at Boynton Beach during a beautiful, sunny day. This ocean recording is much longer and is most often the one that lulls me to sleep.
They are just glorious and remind me of how connected I am to the sight and sound and the push and pull of ocean waters. The distant sparkle and white-tipped froth that moves ever closer to the waiting shoreline is something that inspires and fills me — something I long to see again.
The gift of the ocean is a most treasured gift. ~ Thank you Joyce McTigue.
A call to Snowbirds.
To the lucky New Englanders who head to warm climates for vacation or a respite from thigh-high snow — if you have my cell number and you happen to be near the ocean — please consider sending me a video. It’d be so appreciated. Muah!
If I omitted anyone from this list, please accept my apologies.
And. Then. This. Happened.
I was just getting ready to send this blog to Guru Jessica when the mailman knocked on the door and handed a box to my Jessica. She opened it for me and handed off a note, which I read and laughed my ass off doing so.
Inside the treasure trove were things I’ve written about in my blogs — a box of tea bags, a package of Figgies, and a CD called ‘Pulling Threads,’ with a mystery playlist.
Tim slid the CD in our Bose and immediately, When I’m Sixty-Four filled the room. I began laughing and ugly crying at the unexpected thrill of someone making me a soundtrack of songs I’ve mentioned in my blogs and books. We listened to quite a bit of the song then Tim paused it because he needed to do something in the kitchen. I was just about to lose my patience when he returned with two cups of tea and three Figgies for each of us.
“We’re doing this – together.”
He slid the CD in again, and for the next few minutes we laughed and cried as each ‘surprise’ song began: When I’m Sixty-Four, Into The Mystic, Wichita Lineman, Woman, Woman, Helpless — some of my all time favorites — and then the surprise of all surprise songs began — a hysterical ditty about tea drinking being sung by a bluegrass singer named Tim O’Brien.
The song cracked me up!
My Tim O’Brien concerned himself for several minutes that his wife was going to die in a fit of laughter at the folly of the evening. In one unexpected moment, Tim and Sheryll were back and we were at a light, fun, happy place — one that had no worries — one that was gifted to us by two wonderful people.