As I slowed from sixty mph, I only saw it in my periphery, which—by the way—my acuity has been praised by friends, co-workers, and eye care professionals.
I’m not bragging because what I am about to tell you about myself shouldn’t be praised. It happened, and I am willing to tell my story to the few who will take the time to read it.
While the windshield wipers have been tapping out a tempo, keeping perfect rhythm to every song on the radio for weeks, the deluge had subsided enough for me to see the abandoned shovel left for dead as I reminded myself to search for a new song to quote: shout out to Eddie Rabbit.
While I came in hot, Exodus 20:17 and the blurry green reflective exit sign flashed before my eyes. “Thou shalt not covet” was all I could recall, forgetting that it was specific to the neighbor’s house, his wife, servants, donkey, and ox. However, there was an all-encompassing caveat:” nor anything that is your neighbor’s.”
“Dang— that covers shovels for sure.”
In the split second of overwhelming shovel-centric covetousness, I assured myself that the neighbor probably didn’t know it was missing. Then, I quickly promised the good Lord that if I found the owner, no matter what, I’d return it with a servant’s heart.
But I couldn’t leave it languishing on the cold, wet asphalt.
Heck, it was a fully intact shovel ready to take on next winter. I was overwhelmed with sorrow for whoever lost it, but there was no way I was leaving it there in the barren land between high-speed interstate travel and the exit to the town’s business district.
After turning from the exit ramp to the small city’s secondary byways, I stopped on the overpass. Straining my eyes, I identified the no-man’s land where the shovel lay snowlessly supine.
“I’ll get you, buddy. I’ll get you,” I thought to myself. I took a photo, figuring that when I was lost to the grill of a Peterbilt, they could scroll through my past photos and piece together what happened.
The exact wording of my future obituary, no, headline, flashed before my eyes—
“Local Mope with Shovel Fetish Dies While Recovering Abandoned Snow Scoop from Busy Highway; Even the Coroner Couldn’t Pry it from Cotton’s Cold, Dead Hands. Red Shovel and Truck undamaged.”
It would be epic.
Heroic? Nope. Worth a try? Yup.
I drove back down the on-ramp to the next exit and back up onto Ike’s Asphalt Covered Ribbon, eastbound, where my newest shovel was waiting for a dullard’s recovery method.
Yes, of course, I heard “Eastbound and Down, loaded up and truckin’, they gonna do what they say can’t be done.” My life is mostly soundtracked by obvious songs.
With the skill level of an Indy driver pulling into the pits, I timed my stop to coincide with a suddenly emptied corridor with very few commuters, some who slowed to get a passing glimpse of the spectacle.
I drove past the shovel with emergency flashers employed, stomping the brakes and (almost) stopping completely before bailing out like a Canadian with a bad reaction to the roadside indulgence of three-day-old poutine at a no-name joint on the Trans-Canada.
I sprinted back to the shovel, the rain stinging my skin and eyes. I grabbed it with my left hand and never took my eyes off the traffic column, which suddenly picked up like someone was offering free infusion drinks and vape pens to a parking lot of high school seniors on skip day.
I jogged backward to my truck to make sure I saw what might kill me, tossed the red bounty into the bed of my truck, and heaved my stocky self into the cab, spinning the tires in haste even before I buckled up for safety’s sake; you can’t be too careful.
Well, the shovel is home. I took its photo with Ellie; she loves a good shovel, too.
Standing side-by-side with the rescue shovel is my favorite, as I wanted to make it feel at home and surrounded by friends.
I am biblically bound to offer this shovel to any neighbor who lost it. I will merely nurture it and keep it warm until you correctly identify it as yours.
I am willing to trade donkeys and oxen for the return of the shovel. No servants or wives, please. It’s not worth more than one critter unless it’s a miniature donkey. In that case, I would take two.
In all seriousness, if this is your shovel and you lost it somewhere on I-395, contact me through my email, and we can work out its safe return.
For now, it’s safe. I will keep it if it is still in the garage with no claimants by December. A man deserves to live his dreams.
From the Jagged Edge of America, I remain,
TC
*Thank you to my BuyMeACoffee Supporters— you keep this train running. The good news is that I can use the gifts for coffee and not another shovel—I’ve got one. Well, six.
Thanks for reading, Make sure to become a subscriber to the blog posts. tc