Wednesday, May 10, 2023

Don't Confront the Snowplow

I had long ago accepted my father's tendency to make mountains out of mole hills, especially after he had consumed a few cocktails.

It was winter 1968-1969 and my first Christmas in Maine since my parents had re-settled one more time in a new home. I was sixteen and not ready for that night my dad confronted the town snowplow.

Dad declared war on the town plow after the first six inch snow landed in our driveway in late October my mom said. He was positive our driveway was being targeted because we were "from away". I can't dispute nor confirm that, but treating new folks back in the 1960's here in Acton was certainly different than it is today. 

My family had thick skin. They were used to cold shoulders from years living like gypsies in the military and long after. For some reason, my father had taken issue with the way snow was removed from the road in front of our house.

Note - I could possibly stir up some local shit if I use real identities here. So I won't with the exception of my father, or "The General" as Mom called him when he was 3 sheets to the wind. This night, he definitely had a good head of alcohol infused steam when the first run by the plow went by, lights flashing, and the sound of a tortured plow blade edge reached us in the kitchen..

I did not notice how many drinks my ole man had had, but Mom surely did. She used to keep track and recite her count at breakfast the next day or save until she needed the emotional support of throwing shit back in his face.

I was seated at the kitchen table probably thumbing through a magazine. I saw Dad, clad in only long pants and a short sleeved shirt, head to the front door, open it, and walk out into the snowstorm. Mom waved at me.

"I want you to go out there when he stops the plow on its next pass and separate the two of them before either get hurt."

I was puzzled and began to question her. She would have none of it.

"Shush, Put on a jacket and follow the General outside, please. Last time, those two old drunken fools almost hit each other."

Through my mind as I followed my father down the drive, "Dad throwing punches? ..... And who was he throwing them at?"

The plow lights had crested the hill. The showdown on Grant Hill was about to go down. Dad stepped out into the road and turned in the blowing snow to face the truck lights as they slowly lit him up. His legs spread into a wide stance and his right arm went up like a traffic cop of old at an intersection downtown in anywhere, USA.. He was going to make sure the plow would not to proceed any further until he had spoken his mind. Meanwhile my stomach tightened.

"Oh Geez, he is gonna punch someone....... What the Hell can I do?"

The snowplow slowed and stopped a couple of feet from my father. The driver's door opened and the driver stepped out. He was in shirt sleeves also.I didn't know it at time, but the old fart who climbed out of the plow truck was an Acton Road Commissioner. He was inebriated also. He staggered into the truck lights, leaned on his plow blade and faced my dad.

"Get the Hell out of the road, you old drunk."

They stood some moments glaring at each other, my dad's arms up and Mr Breton standing with his fists clenched at his sides. Neither of them giving an inch as the two old dogs sized each other up.

That's when I made my presence known by stepping between them.

My dad ignored my presence, he was focused on Breton and what he had planned for him. Mr Breton, not to be outdone by my father; leered at me and said,

"Oh I get it. You brought some back up this time. Ain't got the balls to face me alone. Hey ole man, your back up looks kinda puny. How old is he anyway?"

Dad ignored the jab and acted as if I wasn't there.

"Damn you Breton, you are not going to plow me in again." 

Dad stepped around me and I grabbed him.

"Slow down Macrum. I treat your driveway like everyone else's. If I meant to bury you, you would surely know it."

"Go to Hell Breton, how would you know what you do, you're never sober"

I let go of my dad and stepped back. If these two old drunken fools had it in them to land some punches, I was not going to stop them. They're both grown ass men and they deserved each other. Besides, I sensed nothing but a boaster's profanity filled standoff. I turned around and headed back to the house. Before I got there, I turned and looked down the drive at the two of them in the blowing snow, arms gesturing and snow clumps being kicked. That is when I began laughing. My ole man was certainly an interesting man whether he was shitfaced or not.

The Mexican standoff lasted another few minutes. Dad turned and headed back to the house. Mr. Breton climbed back in his truck and finished plowing. 

Before I departed to head back to school, Mr. Breton showed us what plowing someone in really looked like. My father would pour another drink and mumble as he watched the flashing plow truck lights pass by. My mom and I would just smile, waiting for a chance to snicker in private.

Like the rule "it is never wise to piss off the cook", so it goes with it not being smart to piss off the guy who plows the road your house sits on. To the day Old Man Breton stopped plowing, he took much pleasure in brutalizing the two ends of our driveway.

Some lessons come hard ...................................

_______________________

I picked the tune, "Snowplow Song", by Maine's very own, "The Kelly Brothers Band". Low key easy  listening. Maybe too easy of a listen. Anyway, anytime I can highlight Maine, I do.


2 comments:

The Blog Fodder said...

What a great story. Yup, never piss off the cook, the janitor, the secretary, or any of the people on whom your general welfare depends and who have the power to get revenge. Your mom is a saint, I expect.

PipeTobacco said...

Wow! Very interesting story… very well told too! Your father was very direct when confronting problems he perceived. I am not so much like that, even though I admire that trait.

PipeTobacco