Heavy snow fell all weekend. The weather reports said three feet, but when I glanced out the second-story window of my New Jersey apartment early that Monday morning, I couldn’t even spot my little silver car in the blanketed parking lot below.
My building’s on a dead-end street. Always the last to be plowed, I thought.
Finally I made out a square silver patch poking out of a snowdrift. I had to get to work somehow, so I bundled up, grabbed my shovel and headed outside.
I climbed over the mounds of snow behind my car and began shoveling. My arms ached after only a few minutes. By the time I cleared enough to see the windows, I was exhausted. There was still a car length’s worth of snow piled up behind the rear bumper.
A loud rumble drew my attention. I turned to see a big yellow construction vehicle, a front loader, driving toward me. Should I flag him down? Would he stop?
I mustered only a pitiful look as he rumbled closer. He slowed down. I stepped out of the way, and the large front scoop lowered. The vehicle cleared the snow with one mighty push.
I called out to thank the man, but he didn’t seem to hear me. He hit the gas and rounded the curve behind the building. I jogged around the corner to flag him down. But there was no sign of the front loader. Only a dead-end street covered with snow.
