Santa brought David and me pint-sized snow shovels. I woke up a few days later and found our long driveway covered in six inches of new snow. I decided to surprise Dad and do a good deed while he was at work. Mom bundled me up, and I trudged out to clear the way for his return home.

Industrious manual laborer with old diapers wrapped around boot tops.

Fifteen minutes of huffing and puffing produced a cleared spot two feet wide at the far end of our driveway. I loved Dad’s violet and white Pontiac with its big fins (you can see it parked at the end of the driveway in my main photo). Only two hundred square feet more to shovel, giving Dad and his car a safe landing.

Mom thought it a good idea to sap David’s energy level, and he soon waddled out with his shovel in hand.

Acting happy that David is joining me.

Our combined efforts would take days to finish the job. I immediately identified with the cowboys on television who said, “This town ain’t big enough for both of us.”

“Quit shoveling my driveway snow. I was here first.”

He did not stop. His mistake.

Early sign of discontent and trouble brewing on the horizon.

I kicked snow into his cleared area. He did the same to mine. We banged snow shovels together like fat clumsy swords, and somehow mine broadsided his head. He fell backward. Despite being cushioned by multiple layers of winter clothing and snow, he didn’t bounce back up. No blood appeared, so I continued shoveling. I briefly considered giving him a premature burial by covering him with my shoveled snow, but was feeling less mad and more worried he was going to get me in trouble.

A minute or two later, he sat up, began howling, and waddled back to the house. I followed to make sure my side of the story was heard.

I was sent to my room. Dad plowed the driveway when he got home.