Snow Dancing

Living on a lake means we own boats.  They become high and dry landlubbers in the winter, shrouded in shrink-wrap and left outside beneath snowy heavens by the dictate of the miserly (speaking of ourselves here). 

Three of our four boats are parked in the neighbor’s empty back lot.  Instead of paying rent, we keep his boat clear of snow all winter as well as our three.   This is important, since otherwise the covers might collapse under accumulated weight. Performing this ongoing ritual of freedom (from snow) is a good barter, even though writing a check would be easier for old people with arthritis.  As it is, I’m the self-appointed pirate who swabs down the shrink-wrap instead of the deck.  This keeps my arthritic shoulders from freezing up. 

Here’s what happens. At the appointed time, the push broom and I tromp across the street together toward the fleet – my fat, winter-coat-insulated arm hooked in its skinny, naked arm.  We arrive at the frozen armada, and I ceremoniously wave the broom’s long-bristled brush back and forth, sometimes high above my head (a prickly flag) in order to reach the masts imposed on the two pontoon boats (cardboard posts supporting the shrink-wrap). Together we oh-so-carefully sweep and sweep until the plastic covers shine again – ragged poetry in motion.  It’s a gently swaying thing: The Dance of the Old Woman and the Broom.