Many years, ago, when the readers to this Blog were young or maybe not-born-yet, Peter Arno memorialized  the Big Eyes of the little child trying to make sense of what Freud called the Anatomical Distinction between the Sexes. He called it "Lady in the Shower" To be fair, he had a male version, as well, which he called "Man in the Shower." There, a man is swimming upside down in a stall shower pointing to the door handle, obviously beseeching his wife to unlock the door and let him out. 

Winter, not infrequently, reminds me, as well, of other distinctions in the way we see (or, at least, the way Peter Arno -- blame him -- saw these distinctions) differences between the sexes. I don't quite know how to fairly parse the distinction between a Mother who is looked upon in wonder and as someone the child might be drawn towards and the Man who without the help of his Wife can't bust himself out of a stall shower. Still, I'm thinking of my snow-shoveling and gas-filling and plumbing and carpentering duties as pater familias in a home in which the kiddies have absconded and in which the only other male, GuntherDog dislikes getting his feet wet and whose only trick is a cow-eyed handshake. No argument, our Mothers in the 1950's were given far more time-consuming tasks ... cooking and cleaning could go on all day, as could taking care of the brats ... sorry cute-little-spawn ... err ... "our shared blessings from God" ... and keeping the family in one piece ... To paraphrase Sam Hinton: 'Peace to the Family or the Family in Pieces.'

And I have no interest in arguing fairness ... "who has the harder job?" ... "who does more?" ...  fair is what two people old enough to sign a contract ... fair is what they agree to do ... Still, I do have envy (wrote about it in a chapter of book on Men in the 21st C. http://www.amazon.com/Emergence-Man-Into-21st-Century/dp/0763711721) about M's being seen as "The Mommy" and me being portrayed by Arno as being incapable of busting out of a paper bag ... or a glass-doored shower, anyway.

I suppose it hits home, today, as I gird my loins, as the prophets would say, and prepare myself for the shoveling out from the "Historical" Snow-mageddon that the Jeremiahs of my day are predicting. The serious snow is supposed to begin early afternoon and continue through tomorrow morning. Some visitors to my office will decide against driving ... some will don cross-country skis, if necessary, to arrive at my office. It's good to be loved! In any case, I stole a red wool hat with fringes atop points and knitted earflaps from the GrandSpawn, the temperature is not far below freezing, and the snow is not predicted to be the heavy/wet widow-maker variety. I'll go out multiple times and do parts of the 320 feet of walkway. I won't have to do the driveway due to my religious faith that tells me that if I park the cars right at the bottom of the driveway, the Lord will get around to melting the top 160 feet leading up to the garage when She's good and ready. 

I have three pairs of gloves and if I work from a door-INTO-the-snow, my Birkenstocks work just fine. We have one shovel. I guess that's mine? No problem with M ... it's not her thing ... She'll be upstairs taking a hot shower? Nah!

Like last year, I am somewhat preoccupied by the not-quite-delusional fantasy that children making snow-angels in the snow (i.e., lying on their little backs and swinging their arms in the snow -- leaving the imprint of what they think looks like an angel in the snow) are channeling their grandfathers who took their last breaths while making the self-same motions in the snow. Should it ever happen to me, maybe M will have me cremated with my 20" pipe wrench, in one hand, my Wallace open-end wrenches in my pants pocket, leaning on a shovel. When the ceremony ends, there'll be something for "the World to carry on" ... Those wrenches that were my Dad's and my trusty shovel, Mathilda.

Pray for Howard ---- from Psalm 147 ....

He has, indeed, made strong your gates (but the trees may still fall on your house);

He has blessed your children (smart, warm and) inside;

He establishes peace within your boundaries (well, not yet);

And fills you with the finest of Wheat (whether you're celiac or not);

He sends forth his commands to the Earth (Let it snow, let it snow, ugh);

His words run swiftly (before y'know it, the snow's a foot deep).

He gives snow like wool (dries your skin and makes you itchy);

He scatters frost like ashes from a fire (frost-bit fingers raised in praise).

Who can stand before his Icy Cold (I can ... I think, I think, I think I can).

(parenthetical comments added gratuitously).

Finish off, if you would, with "Rudolph, the red-nosed grandpa ... " and Jethro Tull's description of nasal production in "Aqualung" ... 

I'm ready know.