Memory in Mittens

The first snowfall always tricks me.

Every single year.

I stand at the window, coffee in hand, staring out at the driveway like a seasoned expert who has learned nothing from experience. That does not look too bad, I tell myself. It looks soft. Innocent. Almost decorative. Snow has a gift for pretending it is light until you meet it with a shovel.

The shovel, of course, is waiting in the garage. Leaning against the wall. Calm. Confident. Judging me. I pick it up, half expecting it to feel foreign after months of neglect, but it does not. My hands slide into position like they never left. The balance is familiar. The weight feels exactly as heavy as I remember, and slightly heavier than I hoped.

The first scoop is a disaster.

Snow spills everywhere, including directly onto the strip I just cleared, which feels personal. I pause for a second, staring at it, as if the snow might apologize and move itself back. It does not. The second scoop is marginally better. By the third, something shifts. My stance adjusts without me thinking about it. My wrists tilt at just the right angle. My body remembers before my brain fully catches up.

That is when I realize it again: moving snow is not about strength. Anyone who thinks it is about strength has never moved snow properly. Snow is undefeated when it comes to brute force. You do not overpower it. You negotiate with it. You take small scoops. You find a rhythm. You learn very quickly that pride has no place here.

Once I stop fighting it, things get easier. Not easy, just easier. Lift. Turn. Toss. Lift. Turn. Toss. There is a strange satisfaction in the repetition. It becomes almost meditative, if meditation involved cold air, heavy breathing, and occasional questioning of life choices.

At some point, I stop thinking altogether. Muscle memory takes over. I am no longer strategizing. I am just moving snow. It is like riding a bike after years away, except the bike is freezing, does not roll, and actively punishes mistakes. Still, the balance is there. The flow returns. The body knows what to do.

I start to notice things. The sound of the shovel scraping against concrete. The way fresh snow lands differently than packed snow. The quiet of the neighborhood, broken only by the occasional distant snowblower reminding me that some people chose a different path in life.

Neighbors pass by. We exchange brief nods, the universal winter greeting that says, Yes, I see you. Yes, this is happening to both of us. I can feel the unspoken evaluations happening. Shovel technique is serious business. Too big a scoop? Amateur. Poor tossing angle? Risky. Snow back onto the cleared path? Tragic.

The driveway slowly reveals itself beneath the white. Clean lines appear. Progress becomes visible, which is incredibly motivating. Snow teaches you this lesson every time: you cannot rush the process, but steady effort always shows results. One pass at a time. One section at a time.

Eventually, I stop. Not because I am finished, snow is never really finished, but because my body politely informs me that it would like a short break. I lean on the shovel, breathing hard, feeling accomplished and slightly betrayed by my knees. My lower back files a formal complaint.

As I stand there, I realize how strange it is that this skill never leaves. Months go by without snow. Entire seasons pass. Yet the moment winter returns, my body remembers exactly how to move it. No instructions needed. No warm-up tutorial. It is stored somewhere deep inside, alongside other quiet knowledge, how to balance, how to steer, how to keep going.

Winter forgets me every year.

But I never forget winter.

Some skills require constant practice.

Some fade when you stop using them.

And some, like moving snow, you learn once, suffer through thoroughly, and then carry with you forever.

Whether you want to or not.