Early one Monday in January 2007, when a foot of snow had fallen overnight and the temperature had plummeted to minus 10, I was initiated into the routine familiar to generations of Minnesota settlers.
“Morning.” My dad, also named John, stated a fact that was not obvious, given the darkness. “We need to clear the driveway. I have to be at work in two hours.”
Dad grew up on a Minnesota farm shoveling grain, feeding cattle, walking beans, picking rocks and driving tractors. He did not believe in snowblowers. He still fought the snow with a shovel.
Though annoyed, I dutifully got out of bed and dressed in layer after layer: underwear, shirt, socks, sweatpants, sweatshirt, snowpants, coat, boots, face mask, gloves and stocking cap. I braced myself, opened the…