It’s happening again. For the third consecutive week, we kick things off with a huge snow storm. The snow banks at the end of my driveway are taller than I am, and I am wicked tall. Each shovel full has to be tossed about 10 feet into the air to get it over the top of the mountain. If I try to drop the snow on top of the mountain it slides back onto the pavement. I have to go over the top so it slides into the yard. We have an icicle on one side of the house that hangs so low it is only a couple of inches above the ground. The squirrels no longer need to jump to get onto the bird feeders. That is, if the squirrels weren’t buried under four feet of snow.

I am a hearty New Englander. A little snow doesn’t bother me. I stand proudly with my shovel, daring mother nature to do her worst.

Well, that’s how I usually feel. Right now? Our third multi-foot snow fall in just under two weeks has me feeling beaten and broken. My whole body is sore. I’m exhausted. Each time I head out into the storm I feel like I can’t take it any more. Somehow, magically, I get back inside with a clear driveway. I sit down hard on a chair in the living room and hope that it’s over. Then I look out the window again and the clean driveway is covered again. Or, as happened earlier today, I catch a weather forecast that says the next multi-foot storm is four days away.

It leaves me (figuratively) standing defiantly before mother nature with both middle fingers raised in the time honored double freedom rocket salute yelling at the top of my worn out lungs, “YOU SUCK!”

Then I pick up the shovel and start digging. Mother nature remaining steadfastly uninterested.

Hang in there, New England. Just remember that pitchers and catchers report in 11 days. We can make it. It might be a close call, but we can make it.