This morning the sun came out for the first time in days- brilliant and glittering on the three feet of new snow that had fallen in the last couple of days. After coffee, we bundled up to dig out. My husband started on our driveway, and I headed across the street to my 75 year old neighbor to check in.
We live in a rural community in northern California. Sue’s been here for just about 50 years. She knows our home’s history- it was the home of the mine manager, and her home had been one of their children’s homes before the mine went belly up. She’s an artist, and typical of folks from around here, an independent free spirited thinker and all around lovely human.
Sue’s health has deteriorated in the last 10 years. She has a heart condition that belies the fact that she used to be an avid skier and rock climber. So I went over to dig out her old Ford Explorer and check to see if she needed wood brought in, since the power’s been out a couple of days now. Her partner is in San Diego, and she said the generator was buried somewhere under the snow, and she didn’t know where, but she’s just fine. As the sun warmed us up, I shoveled and we talked about all things snow (nothing like it since the 70’s), remarked on the situation of the mailboxes (buried and collapsed from the tractor/plow that had come by earlier that morning)and how she started the first community recycling program back in 1974.
My arms were giving out and my almost son in law took over the last of the task. Sue gave us a jar of wild plum jam in thanks and we went back to the house and celebrated our snow removing prowess with toast and coffee.
Later on that day we were walking the dogs and talking about how the very same people that would pick up a shovel, or get gas for someone’s generator are the same people who often will vote against a proposition that helps their neighbor, or even themselves. I wish people would stop holding individualism as an ideal, as a politic. I wish we had snow storms every year that reminded us of our interdependence, of the need to care for each other, of the fact that we are absolutely not in this alone, and in fact, the only way out and possibly forward, is together.
— Cristine
We live in a rural community in northern California. Sue’s been here for just about 50 years. She knows our home’s history- it was the home of the mine manager, and her home had been one of their children’s homes before the mine went belly up. She’s an artist, and typical of folks from around here, an independent free spirited thinker and all around lovely human.
Sue’s health has deteriorated in the last 10 years. She has a heart condition that belies the fact that she used to be an avid skier and rock climber. So I went over to dig out her old Ford Explorer and check to see if she needed wood brought in, since the power’s been out a couple of days now. Her partner is in San Diego, and she said the generator was buried somewhere under the snow, and she didn’t know where, but she’s just fine. As the sun warmed us up, I shoveled and we talked about all things snow (nothing like it since the 70’s), remarked on the situation of the mailboxes (buried and collapsed from the tractor/plow that had come by earlier that morning)and how she started the first community recycling program back in 1974.
My arms were giving out and my almost son in law took over the last of the task. Sue gave us a jar of wild plum jam in thanks and we went back to the house and celebrated our snow removing prowess with toast and coffee.
Later on that day we were walking the dogs and talking about how the very same people that would pick up a shovel, or get gas for someone’s generator are the same people who often will vote against a proposition that helps their neighbor, or even themselves. I wish people would stop holding individualism as an ideal, as a politic. I wish we had snow storms every year that reminded us of our interdependence, of the need to care for each other, of the fact that we are absolutely not in this alone, and in fact, the only way out and possibly forward, is together.
— Cristine
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