In my most recent post, I referred to a type of shovel I used to shovel snow as a kid. I wrote it was a coal shovel, used to stoke our coal furnace in those good, old smokestack days of the late ‘40s.

Well, I was wrong. (Mark the date; it’s not that I’m seldom wrong; I just seldom admit it.)

The long-handled, straight-nosed shovel I referred to was actually used -- in my family, anyway -- for a more homely chore: shoveling manure.

My siblings and I were not raised on a farm, but with a farm. My Dad had grown up on this farm, in North Dartmouth, Massachusetts. It had been in our family since 1903. He actually tried moving our little family there shortly after I was born, but it didn’t work out. Back to the city we went. So I wasn’t raised on a farm.

But that farm was a part of our lives. Every Sunday, at least, we were there, for an old-fashioned farmhouse dinner -- roast chicken (almost always) with mashed potatoes and giblet gravy. But there was price to be paid: Dad put in more than enough time helping out to earn those dinners. Because Dad would often fill in for our ailing uncle -- the flu, usually -- for a week or so at a time.

Now part of helping out on a small dairy farm is tending to the cows and their basic needs. And one of those needs is … well, cleaning up after them.

That’s where the shovel came in. You wanted a long-handled, wide, square-nosed shovel to scoop the manure from the gutters behind the stalls where the cows stood. If you’ve never been in a cow barn, there were two rows of stanchions which held the cows. The cows stood on a platform that was just long enough for comfort, but short enough for their hind ends to hang over the gutters, down into which plopped their poop whenever the urge came upon them.

The shovel’s long handle was desirable for two reasons: 1. You didn’t have to get down too close to the product of the cows’ digestive processes, and 2. You could more easily swing the shovel-load up into the manure carrier that ran on ceiling tracks down the middle of the aisle between the two gutters.

Oh, Dad and my uncle didn’t miss often; an occasional splatter, maybe. But when I got big enough to help, and was given a shot at heaving the manure (or slinging the sh … you know what I mean), that was another story. Let’s say there was a fair amount of cleaning up afterwards until I got the hang of it.

You could get a fair amount of … whatever … you were shoveling into that scoop and the handle gave good leverage. And Dad was used to it. So that’s why Dad got the long-handled shovel I used to clear the snow from our walks and driveway in the city.

As for the coal pile in the basement -- yes, we had one, until we converted to oil sometime around 1947 or so -- it was flat-nosed, but had a short handle. In retrospect, that was the one I should have used to shovel snow. But it was in the basement, the long-handled one was in the garage and I just assumed it was the snow-shoveling one because Dad used it that way himself.

And you know what “assume” does, don‘t you?

     When heavy snow hits, can a shovel be far behind?

     The news has focused on New England’s own snow globe, snow measured in feet and, in some cases, yards, not inches. Pretty, yes … if you don’t have to get our of your house, free up your car, drive to work or school or do any of the multiple tasks  that make up our daily existence.

     We were fortunate in Pennsylvania. The two weather systems that married up to produce such a horrific offspring hadn’t gotten together until they’d passed our area, so we got a mere four or five inches. Still, it had to be shoveled. A nuisance, really, compared to the burden for our neighbors in the Northeast.

     But the effort still reminded me of snowstorms past. I remember one that taught me a lesson in responsibility and priorities.

     Along the Southeastern Massachusetts coast, we don’t get many snowstorms. But what does fall is heavy, the flakes weighted down by the moisture content contributed by our location near the sea. It makes for heavy lifting – and remember, those were the pre-snowblower days.

     We woke to the snow still falling that day. No school! So out to play. By the time the snow had stopped, a neighbor asked me and my pal Art if we would shovel out her walk. Sure.

     Now remember, no snowblowers. And, for that matter, no snow shovels. As with most households, we had regular shovels, the kind you used to heave coal into the furnace, for that was what we used to heat our homes back then. (Can’t you still hear the roar of coal tumbling down the steel chute into the cellar coal bin?) Those shovels were wide pans of steel with five-foot handles. A handful for a man, they were awkward and difficult for a boy, and nothing ergonomically sophisticated about them.

     Still, that’s what we had and what we used. The alternative, a garden spade, was useless in the snow.

     We cleared my neighbor’s walk, and she gave us 50 cents each. Wow! In that era – oh, maybe 1947 or ’48 – that was good money!

     So off we went looking for other neighbors who had more money than desire to shovel their walks. We found a few, and as we knocked on doors, we wended our way farther and farther from home. At last, as it was getting dark, Art suggested we do his aunt’s walk. She lived about four blocks away – long blocks, so it was about a half-mile down towards the river. It was a good move; for her walk and driveway, she gave us a dollar each!

     By the time we finished, it was dark. So to home. I dropped Art off on the way and got home about five-thirty or six. And waiting for me was Dad.

     Boy, was he mad! I mean, really teed off.

     You see, while I was busy shoveling walks all around the neighborhood, I had left ours untouched.

     And Dad didn’t like coming home to a snow-laden walk and driveway.

     But, I said, look at how much money I made – about five dollars, if memory serves – certain that he would be proud of my initiative and entrepreneurship.

     No such luck. That’s all well and good, he said, but you always take care of your own first. You understand?

     And to ensure that I did, supper – already on the table – had to wait for me, while I shoveled our walk and driveway.

     Lesson learned.