Van Winkle Was On To Something

His obsessive/compulsive,
A-type, anal neighbors
shovel their driveways
at the first sign of
a snowflake clean enough
to eat off of. He only
expends sufficient energy
to clear the way for one
car to make it out of
the garage. Smugly, he
ruminates, anything more
than that is an inefficient
use of time, talent and
calories. But later as
the sun sets and things
freeze over, he has to
go to the mailbox and
the driveway is icy,
slippery and it takes
way too much energy to
navigate the treacher-
ous terrain. As much
as he hates to admit it,
maybe his neighbors
were on to something.
At least they can get
their mail; but then in
light of the predicted
next day’s thaw, he
muses, no news is
good news as he pours
himself a bourbon from
the middle shelf and
settles in for a long
winter’s nap and thinks
to himself, Van Winkle
was on to something.

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