I had a plow guy, and I have to admit I took him for granted. When it snowed, he plowed. When it snowed hard, he plowed twice.
His name was Roger. During the mega storm of February 2007, he backdragged enough of our drive in the middle of the night to allow me to get safely off the road. Then he came back in the morning with his tractor. He dug it all out, and then came back again with the plow to clean it up — all included in his price of $35 per storm.
Once he pulled me out of a jam with his truck and a chain, and wouldn’t take a dime. He said “I’m pulling you out of the snowbank because you’re my neighbor, not because I’m your plow guy.”
Roger had a big beautiful Ford pickup with a sweet plow rig on it. He did a meticulous job —plowing exactly what was necessary, and nothing else. He never plowed our stone into the grass, he never plowed the snow above our waterline, and he never hit our trees.
But the real beauty of Roger was that he got it. He understood us. He knew that we built the cabin so we could come to the mountains to ski. When there was snow in the forecast or snow in the sky, he assumed that I was working hard to get to the cabin. And he did everything humanly possible to make sure that I could run-and-gun my way up our steep driveway when I arrived.
Eventually, Roger resigned our driveway. It’s really steep, with high banks. It’s hard to get up, and tricky to get down. Understandably, the job was more excitement than Roger wanted as he moved through his 70s. I guess it’s true — you don’t know what you got ’til it’s gone.