Snowy Disease

I woke up and was greeted by the presence of seven inches of freshly fallen snow. I really like snow-- like to ski in it, I like to build things with it and I even like to throw it. I also enjoy shoveling it--Shoveling it is the best part. So I got dressed, made a cup of tea, and woke up the (teenaged) kid.

He was, understandably not as exited as I was about the presence of snow. I had to threaten to start driving him to school to spur him into action. I then retired to the kitchen to surf and sip my tea to the sounds of a scraping shovel.

It scraped for a few moments, and then stopped. Shortly afterward, the (teenaged) kid reappeared in the kitchen, dripping snow from his boots.

“The shovel’s broken,” he announced.

“How can the shovel be broken?”

“The snow sticks to it. It makes it really heavy.”

“Deal with it. Get out there and shovel,” I said sternly.

He clomped back outside leaving puddles of cold water, and I sipped my tea, waiting patiently. I knew it would be would return shortly with another creative excuse.

He promptly returned five minutes later, removing his coat. “Is there any pizza?” He asked.

“You have to shovel first,” I said.

“I’m done.“ He continued to rummage through the fridge, pulling out a bag of leftover pepperoni pizza.

“How can you be done? You just went out there.”

“I got someone to do it for me.” He said, reaching for a bottle of mustard.

“What?”

“This guy who had a snow plows on his tractor.” He said, closing the fridge and putting the mustard and pizza on the table. “Where’s the peanut butter?”

“You’re telling me someone just came by and cleared the driveway?”

“What’s so weird about that?” He asked, searching the cabinets for a jar of peanut butter.

“That’s not natural. It’s like a one in a trillion chance. Like the chance of a rock from Mars flying off the planet and coming to land in the backyard.”

“Or maybe Penthouse Forums?” He asked slyly.

“How do you know about that?” I asked.

“Wikipedia. Everything’s on Wikipedia. Did you know that Hitler had rickets?”

“Rickets?”

“Yeah, you know-the disease you get from eating uncooked pork.” He began to spread peanut butter liberally on several pizza slices.

“What does that have to do with the snow being cleared off by some stranger?”

The (teenaged) kid used the squeeze bottle of mustard to put light brown smile faces on the peanutbuttered pizza slices. The vague odor of horseradish wafted through the air. “Hitler got rickets when he was 16. He found out about it when he was sent out to shovel after a big snowstorm.”

“So?”

“I told the guy I had rickets, and he offered to plow for me.” He arranged his pizza slices on a plate and grabbed a can of Coke. “Mind if I take this upstairs?”

“Um, yeah.”

I looked outside, and sure enough, the driveway and sidewalks were all clear of snow.