Shovel Patrol

Our instinctual drive to help runs deep

itsMaxLim CC BY-SA 2.0

If you live east of the Mississippi and you got the hell out of dodge this past Sunday morning or earlier…congratulations, I guess. The rest of us? We ain’t going nowhere.

For the next few days, at least. I’m writing to you from a neighborhood in Boston that looks more like a labyrinth of frozen Stalingrad trenches, surrounded by triple decker apartment buildings and snowbound vehicles. Winter Storm Fern has already earned its place on the Top 10 List of snow events in the city. There may be another round of accumulation this Sunday, but I’m actually not worried about it. Because last Sunday and Monday, I witnessed and participated in something rather beautiful on my street.

I enlisted in the Shovel Patrol.

Ross Dunn CC BY-SA 2.0

When you live in a winter city or suburb, nothing ruins the ethereal ambience of snow like having to shovel it—before all that powder hardens into something heavier and more slippery. As someone who barely dodged a full-on lumbar disc herniation some years ago, I have to be really careful about rounding my spine too much when lifting shovelfuls of snow up from the ground. And if you’re shoveling your steps, sidewalk, or car for more than 20 minutes or so, maintaining proper form becomes increasingly difficult. I was dreading this as I stepped out of my apartment the other day, ready to spend at least an hour chipping away at drifts with my blue Snow Joe—as I did on the last street where I lived. But on my current, recently-adopted street, which two friends and I moved to last spring, the act of shoveling fresh snow is more like a block party.

The first sign that shoveling was going to be different this time greeted me as soon as I opened the door and saw the stairs leading down to our street completely cleared; compliments of our next-door neighbors, who had to get up extra early to clear their stairway and get to their hospital jobs on time. They had decided to shovel our steps too, as if they were an extra plate or mug that someone had left on the counter. And down on the street, I caught a gilmpse of the Shovel Patrol—small bands of roving neighbors, snow shovels in hand, digging out vehicles with verve and alacrity. Flakes were falling hard, miniature mountains of jettisoned snow were building up between the parked cars, but the air was alive with small talk and gallows laughter. All that was missing was a cooler of drinks and a portable speaker pumping out Van Halen songs.

dbking CC BY 2.0

Contrary to what you might assume, the Shovel Patrol was not organized in advance. While our street does have an email list, which people use for sharing information on local developments—whether it’s a yard sale or incoming ICE agents—the first round of collective shoveling seemed more instinctually spontaneous. For me, seeing those earliest rotations of the Shovel Patrol was inspiring enough to spark a major wave of FOMO (Fear Of Missing Out). And that’s how I spent the next hour hacking away at one subsumed vehicle after another, with people I hadn’t met yet, despite the close proximity of our apartments. Once the bitter cold had fully seeped into my gloves, I peeled off to thaw my fingers and rest my back muscles in the apartment; as each of us did at some point, on the understanding that someone else would show up soon.

Again, that’s pretty much how a good old rager works. You show up at the party and you contribute to the chaos for an hour or two. Then you stagger outside when you need a few gulps of fresh air or a stomach-settling snack from the closest 7-11. And then, when/if you’re up for it, you venture back into the melee and you run into new arrivals that look familiar—giving you a second wind and the power to rally. As the afternoon got darker and snowier, word about the Shovel Patrol’s latest exploits hit the neighborhood email list. “There’s a car in front of #47 and the owner has mobility limitations,” one person wrote. “I’m gonna get started on it!” Not wanting to miss this, I clomped back down our stairs in my snow pants and parka, already psyching myself up for re-joining the Shovel Patrol. The first person I saw was my landlord, wandering down the street with his own shovel. I couldn’t tell whether he was looking for some new action to plug himself into, or coming back in from his latest snow clearing shift.

As four of us worked on digging out the sedan parked by #47—with the snow piles now surpassing some of us in height—I found out that one of the patrollers actually lived in another neighborhood on the other side of town. His girlfriend, local and also part of our crew, had conscripted him when he arrived to ride out the storm with her.

“Does this sort of thing always happen here, when there’s a big storm,” I asked her as we scraped out the heavier road salt-infused snow from beneath the vehicle.

”Usually, but not always,” she replied. “This is the biggest turnout I think I’ve seen yet.”

By the time we finished our work on the sedan, I expected to feel physically wasted; in need of a shower beer and a protein-heavy meal. But to my surprise, I wanted to keep going! As did the rest of the crew. So we spent the next 40 minutes or so finding more facilities that needed some shoveling. Sometimes we worked together. Other times we would splinter off and tinker away at drifts individually, but within sight of each other. When I finally did climb the stairs back up to our front door and porch, which offers a nice view of the street below, I could still see Shovel Patrollers under the streetlights.

I’m assuming that Shovel Patrols are a seasonal feature for plenty of neighborhoods. My parents, who live in the suburbs north of Boston, were pleasantly surprised to find that one of their neighbors had shoveled their stairway mid-storm. Why these acts of mutual aid happen on some streets and not on others is an intriguing mystery to dig into. I have some loose threads to poke at. The last street that I lived on was the kind of place where you would often see gardening crews hard at work on lawns, while the people on my current street tend to approach landscaping by rolling up their sleeves and popping an Advil. But bearing in mind that last weekend’s Snow Patrol may have been the largest in a long time, I wonder if a more acute force could be at work here.

These last few weeks, millions of us have been watching one of America’s major cities struggling under what’s basically an occupation by ICE. And the horror of what ICE is inflicting on Twin Cities residents right now is at least matched by the power of how the people of Minneapolis and St. Paul are helping each other weather the storm. It’s incredibly humbling to see people risking their own safety to monitor and record the activities of ICE agents; to offer groceries and safe rides to neighbors who are at risk of being targeted. It’s an escalation of the mutual aid that many people who live in communities impacted by structural inequality have been practicing for a long time.

If nothing else, the events of these last few weeks in Minnesota have shown us that reaching out to help someone struggling can be deeply instinctual for a lot of us and less intimidating if approached collectively. As the writer Adam Serwer observed in a great essay for The Atlantic, that seems to have been a fundamental miscalculation by Stephen Miller, Kristi Noem, and Donald Trump, in their joint decision to invade and brutalize the Twin Cities. They were banking on a majority patchwork of indifference and support for ICE operations. Instead, they’re running into just the opposite; a city that’s full of people who feel driven to protect their neighbors and push back. We’re seeing glimpses of the same thing up in Maine, where ICE is now targeting Somali-American communities across the state. In other words, they took us for a bunch of assholes, when in fact, millions of us are kind at heart, and compelled to act on this.

When I finally took my hot shower after the last round of Shovel Patroling, I changed into fuzzy pajama bottoms and queued up a classic episode of The Simpsons which I had suddenly remembered earlier that day. The opening is among my favorites. It’s movie night and Bart has procured a VHS tape; the real-life Clint Eastwood Western Paint Your Wagon. (“With blood, I bet!” Homer exclaims, practically salivating as Lisa and Marge roll their eyes.) But then, within seconds of Bart pressing PLAY, Paint Your Wagon reveals itself to be a jovial musical, with all the townsfolk square dancing and singing about exactly what the title suggests. Painting a wagon, and painting it good.

”They’re singing, Marge!” Homer cries, dismayed. “Why aren’t they killing each other?”