The cash before the storm

Paula Ganzi Licata lives in Bellmore.

The calm before the storm is a fallacy. Long Islanders know the pressures of the pre-blizzard prep. Park your car at the edge of the driveway. Lift windshield wiper blades off the glass. Bring shovels into the house. Get to the supermarket.

Here I take umbrage with Mother Nature. Snowstorms sanction consumption. Trapped in the house, it's impossible not to bake. Snowbound? It's license to eat. December 2010's blizzard coincided with Christmas leftovers - yikes! I ate like I was going to the chair.

This past storm prompted another supermarket run, but I resisted buying blizzard foods. My only splurge was espresso, anticipating I wouldn't get to Starbucks.

Emergency measures advise having flashlights, batteries, bottled water. Yada. Yada. Yada. Let's talk about the important stuff - an ATM stop so you have cash for shovelers.

I used to shovel. I own two shovels, including the allegedly ergonomic, bent-steel-handle model. But shoveling is a lopsided exercise whose awkward motion is conducted on slippery pavement. It's an invitation to an Advil or a co-pay. I prefer to maintain my gym routine and pay the neighborhood kids.

The morning after the December blizzard, I put a sign on my door: "Shoveling Wanted." But it wasn't Rockwellian cherubs who came knocking; it was adult men, day laborers, the guys who work with landscapers and gather at The Home Depot looking for construction jobs.

Whoever arrives first with a shovel gets the job. They charged $80 to dig out my walkway, driveway and steps - but not my sidewalk.

"How much did you pay?" I asked my neighbor as I was getting into my car, headed for the gym.

"Fifty for my driveway. They wanted $80 for everything, but I didn't have enough cash."

(ATM before the supermarket, people. Will you enjoy your bacon and eggs if you have to shovel?)

The morning after our last storm, there was a knock at the door. Two teenage boys were working the street.

"Do you want us to shovel?" the tall one asked.

"Sure. Can you do the walkway, driveway and front steps?"

"Your sidewalk, too?"

"OK. How much?"

"Forty?"

"Great."

He turned to his partner, standing in my driveway, and shouted: "Everything."

Twenty minutes later, my car was liberated from a snowdrift, my stone walkway visible.

Who knows how many storms will hit before we see crocuses sprouting in our yards? While I'll subject myself to the grueling work of gardening, as God is my witness, I'll never shovel snow again.