This winter has reminded me why I left Minnesota. In 1979, snow started falling on Thanksgiving Day, and most everyone in that farming community still claims it didn’t stop until Memorial Day.
My farm was six miles from the nearest town, and counting my quarter-mile driveway, a mile from the paved county highway. The road to my farm was gravel and it got plowed last.
We got a foot of snow Thanksgiving Day, and I cranked up my aging Massy Harris tractor and plowed the driveway. Knowing the county plow wouldn’t show up for a day or so, I also plowed the gravel road up to the junction with the paved road. I figured that would make it easier for me to get to work in the morning.
The trouble was, it continued to snow all night, and I had to plow the whole shebang again before leaving for work. The snow continued throughout the day and when I got home that night I had to park my car at the junction of the gravel road, slog through the snow for the tractor and plow again before I could get home.
The snow continued pretty much non-stop for the next 10 days, and even though the county plow cleared our gravel road every couple of days, it wasn’t long before there was no place to stack the plowed snow. The solution was to stop plowing and bring in dump trucks and a front-end loader once a week. I got to work by plowing twice a day.
Then it got cold. Thirty-below with gale-force winds. Instead of going to work, I spent several days thawing frozen pipes and coaxing my ancient furnace along.
The next fall I packed up and moved south. Obviously, not far enough.
