We had a little fight last night, easily resolved, but it came down to this: I’m kind of a city girl, born in Brooklyn and raised at first in small apartments. Ken is purely a country boy. What this translates into is that when the weather gets wild, Ken is transfixed by all that must be done, his mind searching out every nuance of how to survive the latest tornado, flood or blizzard. Me, on the other hand, I’m sitting at my computer checking facebook.
Give a dog a bone, but give a man a snow shovel (or if he’s over 80, a snow blower) because when it snows, come hell or high water (neither of which are apparent right now), he’s got to clear the snow. And if he has to go to work, he figures any other humans at home will be braving the elements, shovel in hand.
I did know enough to open the front door once (well, it was to let the dog out). I saw Ken shoveled the front steps. “Cool,” I thought, then went back inside for a phone conference. It didn’t occur to me to look a few feet beyond to where my car was half-buried in snow, and if I had seen it, I would have thought, “Oh, well. That’ll melt eventually.”
Late at night, Ken explained how he couldn’t believe I naturally wouldn’t go out and shovel and do assorted out tasks. “Guess I’m just a city girl, and you’re a country boy,” I told him.
“Then you have to get in touch with your inner country girl.” I tried my best by singing most of the words to “Green Acres” while he put his pillow over his head and begged me to stop. “You are my wife/ Goodbye, city life/ Snow acres, WE ARE HERE!/ da da da da da, da da!”