Joe Namath, Mickey Mantle and Bobby Kennedy when I was young. Certainly my mom, the greatest cook who ever lived, and my Dad, the single most selfless man I have ever met. And the guys who run into buildings when they are on fire or about to collapse or both because "it is their job." That is pretty much it for my hero world.
But there is a neighbor who is getting close. I call him "Snow Blower Man." I sing it when he comes around, dancing like a little child. Sometimes I shout it. My wife Joyce thinks I am nuts. I might have learned his name some time ago. I might even have been told where he lives, but it does not matter because I do not remember. And even if I did, I would still call him "Snow Blower Man." That is who he is.
Snow Blower Man comes to my house and the homes of my neighbors every time it snows. This morning he came. He wasn't wearing a hat; just a pair of gloves and a jacket that appropriately read "Staff."
The first time he came, six years ago following a particularly heavy snowstorm, our walkway was cleared before we even got up out of bed. Rarely have you seen a happier pajama-clad man. I shouted to Joyce, "Someone shoveled our walk!" Just a few weeks in our new Riverton home, I thought we had moved to Paradise - a cold and snowy Paradise, but a Paradise nonetheless.
Snow Blower Man does not simply make a narrow pass down the block. No, he comes up all the way to our front steps, cutting a wide path from edge to edge. Our home is on a corner lot and our sidewalk has to be a good 60 yards or so. Snow Blower Man covers every inch.
My children have accused me of having a "bromance" with Snow Blower Man. So be it. I love the man.
In the six years that Snow Blower Man has been rescuing me from the back-breaking, heart-attack inducing task of clearing my walk, I have learned more about him and the men he represents.
He lives across the street, down the block, in the yellow house. I learned he is Irish, as in Irish from Ireland. He came to this country as an adult who had NEVER seen snow in his native land. (I did not even know that it does not snow in parts of Ireland.) He loves the white stuff so much, he asked his wife to get him a snow blower for Christmas one year. The rest, and his legend, is history.
I have also learned that Snow Blower Man is not unique. He is a member of a special class of men who own snow blowers. I know that because I was singing the praises of Snow Blower Man to a friend and he told me he does the same thing in his Pennington neighborhood. I hope he is as revered by HIS neighbors as Snow Blower Man is by this one.
And as I lift my hot chocolate in praise, all warm and comfortable in my home, please join me in saying:
"Long live Snow Blower Men!"
