I had to sit this one out. After being out in New Jersey's floods, nor'easters, blizzards and hurricanes for parts of three decades, this column is being written from the warmth and safety of my bedroom, with fuzzy, sheepskin slippers, not waders, on my feet. Abdominal surgery a few days ago left me with healing old-guy scars on my gut...
I had to sit this one out.
After being out in New Jersey's floods, nor'easters, blizzards and hurricanes for parts of three decades, this column is being written from the warmth and safety of my bedroom, with fuzzy, sheepskin slippers, not waders, on my feet.
Abdominal surgery a few days ago left me with healing old-guy scars on my gut and doctor's orders not to do any heavy lifting.
For the first time in my life, I will not shovel out, or go and report on nature's latest bad behavior.
My daughter's boyfriend will come over with a snow blower, while I stay inside, flannelled-up, under blankets. I will listen as the churn of his internal combustion engine in the howling wind replaces the usual scrape of my dented aluminum shovel. There's a metaphor in that I don't even want to think about.
Another is one of time whistling by, this winter blast a chilling reminder of approaching frailty. Either way, it's a perfect snow day lament.
The house is getting empty. Almost all the shovelers are gone, some in far corners of the world. As I write this, I have a kid in Hawaii (on vacation), a kid in Thailand (teaching) and a kid in Sudan (at the U.S. Embassy). Another is away with his girlfriend which, at any age, a man should be free to choose over helping his father shovel out.
That left me with my youngest, and her boyfriend and his snow blower. Old Man Winter is here for a day, but he has blown into the greater arc of my life, too.
A few years ago I pulled up to my parent's house after a massive snowstorm to see my dad laboring in the driveway. He was closing in on 90. The church was going to send some guys over to help, but my father was impatient. It was afternoon now and he had to get uptown to get his papers and lottery tickets. That was his morning routine. He was not giving in to Old Man Winter, in either the daily or long form.
When I admonished him for not calling me to help, he said, "Don't treat me like I'm some kind of invalid."
That's not the exact quote. My father is a New Jersey Italian through-and-through, so there were a few invectives to hammer home his point.
And the point was this: Shoveling out during or after a massive storm is a man vs. nature adventure in a world where such virility is normally sought on weekends or vacations. I get this.
Despite the heart attack warnings, we get out there. Despite the frozen branches cracking overhead, we take our chances. Despite the dastard plows that drop another ton at the mouth of the driveway just as we clear it, we dig in again, knowing there is an end to the futility.
The stiff back that won't straighten, the reddened hands that won't unfurl, the numb nose that won't stop dripping - none of it stops us from fighting the fight. Spring is coming, even if, at the moment, we can't imagine a world not covered in white.
I've used snowstorms to write about parenting. One column was about how none of the nine neighborhood teenage boys - including a couple of my own - were out of bed helping their moms and dads shovel out for work. We were going soft, raising soft kids.
Another column was about the dearth of young entrepreneurs, slinging shovels house-to-house, seeing a snow day as a pay day, the green in all that white.
Another was about me and my Russian neighbor -- two military veterans during the Cold War -- working as comrades to unjam his snow blower, whose blades choked on the free press, a buried Star-Ledger.
And that leads to this bit of snow day insight. When nature is at its worst, most of humankind is at its best. Yes, there are scammers and looters, but they are far, far, far outnumbered by the helpers.
There are too many stories to tell here. People with boats evacuating their neighbors, from Lincoln Park to Bound Brook to the Lost Valley of Manville, from Hurricane Floyd through Irene. The churches and community centers that opened their doors to the refugees from Sandy. Competing fishermen at Belford helping each other batten down as Sandy turned the Raritan Bay into a tidal monster never before seen. The volunteers who always rush in to help, sharing and easing the burden of human misery.
This job allowed me to see those things and all the chaos and craziness that goes with it - adventures usually shared with a photographer.
Again, too many stories to tell. Bob Sciarrino with me, out all night with plow drivers. Andy Mills and me, faces bitten by vertical sandblasts, standing on collapsing sand dunes at Ortley Beach just feet from a roiling sea, not once but maybe a dozen times. Jerry McCrae and me in a canoe, caught in the current of a record-flood swollen Passaic in Lincoln Park - next stop Paterson Falls - until we tethered to a phone pole. Me and Ed Murray at Belford as Sandy approached, transformers spitting sparks over our heads.
But this one I had to sit out, first time ever. Probably won't be the last. That is inevitable. That's Old Man Winter howling outside and there's nothing I can do to stop him.
Mark Di Ionno may be reached at mdiionno@starledger.com. Follow The Star-Ledger on Twitter @StarLedger and find us on Facebook.