Shoveling snow

In the midst of a lazy Saturday, book perched firmly on my stomach--trees all dressed in white, my wife came into the house and asked me to help our elderly neighbor dig out her car. Outside the dark pavement is dotted by thin patches of ice, and our neighbor stands at the side of her car, seventy, seventy five, hard to say, holding her shovel. And as I explain to Ruth that I'll dig out her car and tell her to go inside and get warm I began the most useful thing I did all day.

Interpolation on thinking while shoveling snow/using the edge of our plastic shovel to try and cut up some of the more trenchant holdouts.

Altruism-Altruism (pronounced /ˈæltruːɪzəm/) is selfless concern for the welfare of others.

Note: If you begin to consider things like the definition of altruism you've already probably crossed over the bridge and have no way of getting back to it. Besides which, anyone who wants to watch unaltruistic action first hand, should probably jump inside my brain Being John Malkovich style when the collection plate comes around at church. Oh the mental hang ups and hoops.

A half an hour is a long time to consider whether shoveling snow is a good or bad thing. Probably too long. And relatedly, a good portion of the thinking involved thinking about thinking. Ie, whether life would be nobler if I wasn't analyzing whether life was noble. Ie, merely shoveling snow from point A to point B without trying to gain any insight about what it might mean to me as a human being would probably be a good thing. In short, in which the author defies the working class. Because there is nothing quite like listening to a highly educated person whining about that education.

Are you my grandmother?
So after the author finishes thinking about whether the act of shoveling snow is altruistic and briefly bemoans the fact he's thinking at all, another line of thinking enters. This line of thinking, called here, "are you my grandmother" tends to involve grand narratives related to simple actions. Ie, the pauper who believes that he is a prince. Anyhow, this line of thinking comes about when the author is chipping vigorously away at the snow and remembering just how carefully his neighbor ascended her stairs. The author's grandparents have passed away, and so it's no doubt natural for the author to begin entertaining thoughts of adopting a new grandmother, which is the likeliest outcome of this whole shoveling experience. He even went so far as to encourage her to visit his house if he needed anything proudly saying the address and really meaning it, even though on the best of week nights he can barely manage sprinkling salt on the steps and watching an hour or so of television all while trying to interact/put his daughter to sleep.

Hubris-Hubris often indicates being out of touch with reality and overestimating one's own competence or capabilities.

In the midst of imagining our future bliss as adopted grandchild and grandmother, I began to realize that I was creating a grand narrative out of a simple act. And what I was really doing was the sort of thing that people in the fifties did all the time for another. Though, in many ways this old American stereotype of the good old days has been debunked time and again. Thus, I got to wondering whether it was true that people would actually help one another out more back in the day.

Thoughts-The tree is drenched in white splinters. Outside, the sun is an orange useless ball flung low across the sky.

Which lead me, of course, to consider whether this need to create a grand narrative, adopted grandson, was peculiarly American. I wondered if our culture has always been subject to this disease. Hell, we tell ourselves stories to stay alive, but we also tell them to cover over awful truths. At some point I started wondering whether the need to create a grand narrative was not necessarily limited to Americans but was part and parcel with human existence. Indeed, isn't it the stories we tell ourselves that keep us sane?

Luckily, I had finally gotten Mrs. Rucker's spot dug out to a reasonable level by that point, and I was able to walk up her steps and let her know the job was done. "Thank you," she said to me, and gripped the back of my arm with her small hand. It is not often that we are touched by strangers. It felt good to rest in the flesh. At home I finished reading a book and ready my daughter a story about a duck who was last on the boat. I don't even know what that story is supposed to mean.



Grandmother or not? No, it's just a simple act, is the need for the grand narrative universal or some peculiarly american thing.