500 words about a shovel

Did you know that a vignette was originally something that could be written on a vine leaf? Interesting, hunh? In literature a vignette is a "short, impressionistic scene that focuses on one moment or gives a particular insight into a character, idea, or setting."

I already put my 500 words on a blade of grass here, so I decided to put my 500 words on a shovel here, too.

                                                             Shovel

It was the irregular plop, plop-plop, not the cats on the bed awaiting breakfast, that woke me. I sat up, and there it was again: Plop. Ah! Snow! I grabbed my Farquharson plaid robe, stuck my feet into my mocs and went out onto the porch. Already, there were bird tracks on the rail and rabbit tracks across the lawn. A squirrel chattered on the steps. Plop. The tall Spruce on the corner was slowly trembling the heavy snow off her limbs onto the ground. Plop.

With the chill seeping beneath my robe and the cold snow over the tops of my mocs, I shivered and the practical me said, “Shovel.” I came in, slipped on my jeans and two sweaters and my purple hand knit socks that a friend made for me. I slipped my feet into my very serious boots that will keep my feet warm and dry down to minus 40 degrees.

I wanted to shovel the snow off the porch and steps before my big footed neighbor mashed it down and it turned to ice. My own footprints looked huge.

But first, I went down the edge of the steps and looked at the clean even lawn. The snow had filled in all the dips. There were no humps and the plows had not come yet, so it was hard, unless you knew, to tell where the lawn ended and the roadway began. I stood there smiling and breathing the cold damp air.

Then I ran across the expanse to the street and turned to see my tracks. The first tracks in this snow not counting the rabbits. It gives one a sense of possession to be the first. I could see my shovel on the porch near the door. I wished I could just call it to me so that I could shovel my way back to the porch.

The shovel has a bright yellow plastic handle made to support 125 pounds which is more than I weigh and twice what I can lift. The blade is black plastic 18 inches wide. It’s a trusty tool. Plain and serviceable. It is a thoroughly functional object and beautiful for that. Not even someone from the desert could miss its purpose.

I got snow off my doorway then pushed the shovel so that its front edge was snug on the wood. There is nothing quite like the sound a shovel makes as it scrapes along a surface. I lifted the heavy snow and tossed it over the rail. Plop. “Just like the tree,” I laughed. And again. Plop. A rhythm. Scrape. Lift. Plop as the snow landed on snow below the rail.

My face was tingly cold. A cup of coffee would be nice. Cats first. I needed a box. I took one out, shoveled snow into it. I brought it in, dumped the snow into the shower so the cats could explore and play.  Be nice to be a cat and not have to shovel.