They look so innocent, so pure. They weigh next to nothing, and to a boy, armed with a metal implement, victory seems certain.
My boys looked at them this afternoon and immediately assumed the swagger of victory assured and anticipated.
"We'll shovel, Mom. " The eldest planted his shovel like a flag and held the handle with extended arm. He looked like Sir Edmund Hilary, God rest his soul.
They shoveled the walk, exchanging advice on shovel angle and relative weight of snow to muscle mass. Having conquered the small white flakes on the ten foot walkway, they trotted across the street to clear Mr. Paul's drive.
Every ten minutes or so, I glanced through the afternoon, nearly opaque with falling innocence. The boys shoveled assiduously. I heard their laughter as they conquered nature with each shovelful.
The thrill sounded intoxicating from where I stood in the toasty kitchen.
Inevitably, there comes to the conquering hero, a discouraging moment of realization. The moment of vision, when the overcomer surveys his surroundings to discover the fickleness of nature's submission. Where moments earlier, a black driveway lay barren and revealed from under the blanket of protective snow, now, a thin coverlet has surruptitiously been pulled. It seems likely nature is modest. Too modest to reveal itself during the naked months of winter.
When I check again, the boys are shoveling Matthew's driveway. There is no singing, but a good-natured conversation seems to be carried between them. The arc of release as snow flies from shovel to pile has diminished. Occasionally, the boys find it necessary to rest between forays against the tyranny of the snowflake.
I turn to the pantry to find a protein and fat laden snack. Peanut butter on something is needed. It is likely that only peanut butter on everything will suffice.
At my next review, the boys have advanced to Stephen's house, across the street. Now, their movements are halting. There is no talking, and a grim determination has settled onto their features.
Perhaps they feel an urgency. A distasteful awareness of the need to shovel or be absobed by the borg-ish whiteness which is already collecting on their hats, backs and mittens.
They fight with every ounce of waining strength, until the urge to overcome is itself overwhelmed by sheer fatigue, giving way to apathy.
I watch from the heart of our home, as their efforts wane. Soon, I must make the call and judge the contest in favor of the small white flakes of little consequence.
The boys arrive at the front door, scattering the tools of their battle on the front walk, to be obliterated by the foe.
I turn off the hot chocolate and smile as they delight in the scholpping gurgle of mugs being filled.
There is little as effective as the snowflake to test the budding manhood of my warrior princes.
