Claire Sellnow, right, Lee Rowe, center, and Anna Sellnow shovel snow from the driveway of their Bangor home on Christmas Day. Credit: Gabor Degre

I promised myself that I would not write about snow this week.  In order to keep that promise, I have decided I won’t complain about the unrelenting white flakes that keep coming down and coming down as if winter in Aroostook is the opposite of the ominous Game of Thrones phrase that Winter Is Coming.  Rather the words I keep suppressing in my mind are Winter Ain’t Leaving.

I will avoid making any disparaging remarks about the snowmobilers zooming around at all hours of every freakin’ night or how the boost that our winter snow sled enthusiasts bring to the local economy would have happened just fine with half the snowfall we’ve had so far. I won’t bemoan the fact that there is no place to put the snow any more, or that when I send my blower down the driveway the snow flies to the side and then just slides back down into the path. It seems like a waste of time to point out the endless curses I fling loudly into the blowing sub-arctic wind that has numbed my face to the point that my wife flinches when I try to smile at her after shoveling snow.

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I’ve promised I wouldn’t mention how the various pathways I’d planned in October that would provide us access to the woodpile, the compost heap and the workshed across the winter have all narrowed down until they’ve become shallow depressions in a four foot deep blanket across my yard. Nope, I’ve had enough, and I’m not going to think about it anymore and I refuse to drone on about it to my friends and neighbors.

The plow just drove by as I write this, and God bless those men and women who keep our roads clear. In order to keep my promise, I’ve decided to omit any mention of the despair a person feels when he has finally pushed the snow from the end of the driveway and that plow comes by and pushes a foot of snow across the spot he just cleared. It’s a regular event that makes a person consider leaping into the blades of their own snowblower just to end it all in a splash of color that, as gruesome as it may be, is at least something other than white.

Just sayin’…

So I won’t mention the prediction of 3-8 inches of additional snow coming in on Friday, and I won’t put my hands to my face and wail like that Edvard Munch painting, The Scream.

I’m a person who tries to keep his promises, and, for this column, I will just avoid the topic of snow completely.