The Snowplow

Every winter I spent in Montreal, Canada, my dad fought the snowplow.
After each major (or even relatively minor) snowstorm, he’d have to dig out a path from the garage to the street to get his car out. After a good hour of work he would return inside to get ready to head for work, after parking his car right at the edge of the sidewalk. He returned outside each time to see that the snowplow had locked him in, again.

One year, after a big storm had hurled its way through the city, he once again had to dig his way out. This time, though, he was determined to beat the snowplow at its own game, to fool it once and for all. He decided to wait to dig the path until AFTER the snowplow had passed.

He waited and waited. He’d be late for work and we’d be late for school. He assured us we had an excuse, as did he. And waited a bit longer. What he didn’t know was that the snowplow itself had gotten stuck.

He finally decided that it wasn’t going to come anytime soon, bundled up and went outside into sub-zero temperatures. It took him the usual hour or so to dig that path. And, as usual, he went back inside, got ready for work . . .

When he came out, he saw that once again the snowplow had won.