Plowtown

Hollis the Mountain Man considers a change in profession

by Sally Cragin

Illustration by Michelle Barbera

As Tritown settles deeper into mid-winter, the landscape around Hollis the Mountain Man's lair softens and shifts under an increasing burden of snow. The ladder he left leaning against the roof (to scoop out leaves from the gutters last fall) becomes a serrated, sculptural form after several storms. The tarp that covers the bucket of roofing tar becomes just another gentle hillock in the snowfield. But most stunning is Hollis's collection of defunct vehicles (most of which he claims he still needs for "parts," though why the hell would you want to be able to repair an AMC Pacer? argues Delia Ellis Bell the Partial Yankee -- there was a questionable great-great-grandmother). These oddly shaped assemblages become beautiful under a thick blanket of ice crystals.

Delia has brought a pair of snowshoes up to the Lair, in the hopes of walking (safely) across the (presumably) frozen surface of Picture Pond. Hollis stands at his front door and gazes admiringly at the vehicles. "Betcha can't guess which one is the old Ford!" he says to Delia, who's adjusting her toe straps.

"Hah," says Delia. "It's the one closest to the plow blade, which is the thing that looks most like a Noguchi sculpture."

"Huh?" says Hollis, traipsing after Delia. The snow is deeper and nearly comes over the tops of his boots, but Delia glides easily over the powder. He'll be damned before he can say "wait up," however, and contents himself with teasing her about her footwear. "I keep picturing you wearing a big bill with a fish in it," he says, pausing to slap his thighs in merriment.

"Laugh all you like, Hollis," she says. "But you'll be gasping before we're halfway across the lake."

"Hey," says Hollis. "I've gotta pair of Mason's tennis rackets. Think you could fix me up a pair?" At this quip, he nearly collapses in a drift.

"Quack, quack," says Delia, moving steadily onward.

DELIA'S PREDICTION IS correct, and Hollis returns to the Mountain Lair to put on a pot for hot cocoa. He feels badly (sorta) about teasing Delia, whose enthusiasm for new projects is invariably over the top. As he waits for the water to boil, he looks out at his yard and the disassembled parts of his old snowplow.

His older brother Mason bought the truck, frame, and plow back in high school, figuring, with the winters the way they were in the '70s, a couple of Mountain Boys could make their money back in a season. Mason was correct -- even at Carter-era plowing prices ($5 a driveway, $10 if it was long) -- they cleaned up, literally and figuratively. With Mason, Hollis, and their father at it, the truck was kept together and the hydraulics functioned through some bitter winters.

Hollis makes himself a cup of cocoa and drifts back through the years. The Ford was his first vehicle, and he had to learn not only to drive but to work the plow blade without slicing into houses, porches, or trees. What a gas they'd had -- out in the middle of the night, making the rounds. They had loyal customers, and on many nights they'd plow till dawn, so people could get to work. Skipping school was extra-enjoyable after a night behind the wheel.

Was there any sensation more powerful than cranking up Foghat on the 8-track player, raising the blade of the plow (like the priest holding the Host before the Sacrament), and then pressing down on the gas?

Hollis sips his cocoa and surveys the scene. In the distance, Delia is waving frantically from the edge of Picture Pond. "Well, she didn't fall in, so that's a plus," says Hollis to Trick and Treat, the Mountain Lair tabbies who wreathe around his feet. Hollis makes her a cup of cocoa and meets her by the shore.

"It's solid through," she gloats, taking the cocoa. "Not a crack to be heard."

"Well, the Tarboxes have got a winch, in case we had to get you out," Hollis says demurely. Delia gives him a tight little smile and unstraps her snowshoes.

"Tennis anyone?" she says. "Face it, Hollis, you're just getting soft."

Hollis snorts and follows her back to the Mountain Lair. "What are you talking about?" he demands. "I live with a coal stove that barely works. When's the last time I went on vacation?"

Hollis opens the door and Trick and Treat peer out. They grimace at the cold, but Trick, the black cat, takes a tentative step onto the frozen porch. Treat, the orange cat, stays within the protected enclosure of the door. "Come on," Hollis urges. "Are you in or out." He holds the door open and rolls his eyes. "We go through this every hour. If there's a door around, cats achieve a perfect Zen relationship with it. Neither in nor out, but maybe both at once." Trick ambles to the edge of the porch and sniffs the air.

"If the cat jumps in the snowdrift, with all that black fur, at least we'll be able to find her," says Delia. "Come on, let's go in. It's freezing out here."

"Gettin' a little soft there, aren'tcha, girlie?" Hollis muses.

"Every now and then," Delia replies, brushing past him into the house. Hollis stands at the door watching the cats, and the shadows fall on his lawn sculpture.

"Well, you may think I'm soft now, with all my canned food and difficult heating apparatus, but at least in high school I was living the hard life," he tells her. "I was plowing at all hours, riding the snow frontier."

"That's true," Delia agrees. "I remember the rattle and roar of that Ford. You were lucky you only plowed your friends' houses, or you'd have been sued for all the sod you kicked up and stone walls realigned."

"Hey, I was only 17," he says. "Part of the beauty of snowplowing is that you don't need a special permit, just the frame for the blade and a truck. Those were the days. Just empty roads, falling snow, and a full tank of gas."

Delia jerks her head out the window. "Why aren't you still doing it?" she asks.

"Well, the equipment got older just like we did. Mason handed me down the truck and the business, and after a few years, it was clear I'd have to put a whole season's profits back into the truck. And I wasn't going to do that -- "

"God, no," she says. "I seem to remember that's when you bought the VW Microbus and were going to chauffeur kids to concerts, except you forgot you hated kids."

"Right," he says. "But we had a good run. Sometimes I think about repairing it just enough so I can do this driveway, but you know it never ends there. As soon as it was up and running, it'd be `Hollis, can you do our driveway?' and `Hollis, I've got to get to work.' Too much pressure."

"You know, last year, I met a guy who lived in one of those swanky North Shore suburbs, and he was getting fifty bucks a job," Delia says.

Hollis puts down his cocoa. His eyes are alight with possibility. "Fifty bucks?"

"Minimum," says Delia. "And even more, most of the time. Of course, the only thing more difficult than working is working for a certain kind of wealthy person, if you know what I mean."

"And how," says Hollis. A soft scrabbling at the door is heard. "It's the Zen kitty. The sound of one paw clapping." He leans over and swings open the door. Trick marches straight to the wood stove and begins to clean her paws. Treat goes over to take a sniff, but thinks better of it and settles back on the carpet.

"See?" says Hollis. "No one wants to plow anymore if they don't have to." n

Sally Cragin edits Button, New England's tiniest magazine of poetry, fiction, and gracious living.

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