The plow guy came this morning. January 16th and the first plow of the season. The PLOW GUY. Kinda conjures up images of a scruffy, plaid clad, slightly overweight in need of a shave guy. Who, when he rolls the window down to talk to you smells of coffee and cigarettes. Or worse, cigars. Not that I have anything against cigars. And how often do we exchange words, anyway? When he rolls in at 5:15 and I wake up to the scraping of the blade, the only words are to Bruce, "It's the plow guy".
Our guy is Steve, and he is NOTHING like I've just described, so why does that image come up? He's very handsome, very slim, not too old, not too young. He has beautiful curly brown hair. And I'm pretty sure his truck cab smells more like coffee than anything else. He's a hardworker and a gifted carpenter when he isn't plowing.
He does stairs and banisters, two of the most precise and difficult woodworking challenges I can think of. More precise than putting together a quilt. And he approaches plowing our road with the same quality of care he does to a mahogany handcarved handrail. We're lucky to have him, and I don't mind the early morning call to wakefulness. It just means I don't have to shovel!
3 comments:
Sounds like a lovely view with your coffee this morning!
My plow guy is Mark and I don't want to smell the inside of his truck or anything near him, actually. I think I'll dream about your guy instead.
I'm glad there is something to plow, finally.
Your description of Steve sounds like you are talking about my husband (is you change the hair color to grey). Now all we need is some snow here - and Tom would be a happy man!
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