DEMENTIA CARE: SNOW.

Scottish snow, or snaw, is not what it once was. In the Days of Yore™, snaw fell by the elephant-load. Official measurement. The snaw was epic. It slowed traffic into the Stone Age and swallowed tiny children for eternity. Five elephants of snaw fell on the front path. You’d swerve prehistoric beasties that were after Luke Skywalker’s backside. Yes, just to clear a space around the doorstep.
   There was no such thing as a snow day. This always struck me as an Americanism. The phrase has no place here. Especially…as snow isn’t all that snowy, these days. Before dementia, there was snow. Heavy snow. Snow that turned to icy concrete on the roads.
   Then snow faded from memory…just in time for memory to fade. There hasn’t been heavy crippling snowfall here since caring swept in. This doesn’t stop me from dealing with snow, from time to time. I think of it as flour.
   A light dusting of flour, or icing sugar. The lack of snow in the actual snow is a good thing. When it falls and doesn’t lie, that’s a good thing. If it falls and lies for a wee while, that’s not a bad thing.
   Covid came. So events were cancelled. No daycare. And no need to keep the path clear on a daycare journey. So why do I sweep the path, with coffee on the boil? Why do I sweep the path anyway?
   There’s hardly any real snow, and nowhere to go from here to there. Everything was shut down by Covid far more severely over the last year than it was by snow over the past half-decade.
   Why do I clear the path?
   For the daily carers at the rear of the building and for the postie at the front. And for emergency purposes, whatever those may be. You take small victories as a carer and you turn them into epic triumphs.
   It’s a great thing to boot up and suit up for the trip to the path. Old hat. New scarf. Layers. Coat. Gloves. Warehouse brush, designed to be the width of the path. Maybe shades against the glare. Depends.
   Coffee is on the go.
   Through the door, into the cold. Start with a clear space. The front of the house is in shadow. Everything is crisper and colder here. Ice forms at the snow’s edge right there on the step. The step goes first. Swoosh and swoosh. Doesn’t take long. I pull the door closed behind me as I step onto the step.
   Then it is down to the business of clearing patches at the sides. These are for me to stand on without clumping around and forming impenetrable footprints. Don’t stand in the stuff you are clearing away.
   And then I am onto the gravel as I march down the side of the path. I don’t brush the length of it, but the width of it. There’s a patch of paving that extends into the gravel, and I sweep a lot of snow onto that.
   Imagine those frantic people who throw brushes all over the ice when games of curling are afoot. Except…I am nowhere near as frantic. No points to score or trophies to win. This is my exercise for the day.
   I reach the boundary with the street. Brush snow off the gate and open that gate. I go this far and no more. The wilds of the paths beyond are not mine to clear. I sweep aside enough to provide a clear space for those who trail a little snow with them as they walk by.
   And then it is back along the path one last time, to sweep the few flakes I missed. It’s all back from the paving now. The wind can’t blow it back on. Clear skies. No risk of more snowfall. Swept clear just in time for the postie.
   I know that as I return to the front hall to find a letter waiting.
   My return to the front hall can only occur after I’ve left for the snowy wastes at the rear of the property. Off I go again. This is easier. Sunlight has started its work on the brittle layer of snow and ice closest to the house.
   I don’t sweep the step clean. There’s a wee bit o’ work to the sides, giving myself space to step back and forth. Then it’s down the path, sweeping away until I reach a deserted place. This is an apron of concrete that used to serve as the place to hang out the washing.
   The washing line, and a washing pole, came down during the last round of upgrades. And I didn’t fix any of that stuff back up. Today, the concrete apron is a dumping-ground for snow. It slides off the path onto the near-square.
   Out into the street I go, brushing a space for the incoming carer. I make this my business, as the pavement is lowered at an angle. All of the snow has to go from there. No accidents. Slip-ups. Skids. Crashes. Scrapes. Falls. None of that.
   I return to the house and gradually set my layers aside. A letter is waiting. Coffee is waiting. I gave myself something to do. Thin layers of snow were gone. I cleared all that light snow away. Just to be able to walk back indoors for a coffee, out of the cold, on a January day.
   It is a small victory. This makes the coffee hard-earned, or something. Crossing a room must be an adventure. Ordering food is a mighty quest. Waving a brush back and forth and back again is as magnificent a feat as would be battling a Balrog or recharging the vacuum cleaner.
   I clear the snow to make the coffee feel so much better. There isn’t much snow. Snow isn’t what it once was. I clear the snow as an excuse to wear a new scarf. And I come in from the clearing as an excuse to take the scarf off and hang it back up on the back of the kitchen door.
   The snow is cleared for the ease of the postie. And it is cleared for the ease of the carer. Technically, the carer could arrive at the front door, same as the postie does. But there are two paths, and two paths need attention. So I swing into action. The wide brush does its work. I gain a bit of exercise.
   Returning from the hunt, I stoke the fire high and…well, no. The radiators are already pumping heat into the halls. Is there a biscuit? Of course there is. I hunt the biscuits in their natural habitat and make a great sacrifice to the gods in thanks for the bountiful meal.
   Or something vaguely like that, anyway.
   With daycare operating again, if snow fell hard and fast…daycare would cancel. Too many elderly people struggling with frames and sticks and wheelchairs. No. But I would clear the path anyway. Carer still has to come in. I may still have to go out, to pick up pills.
   The heavier the snow, the greater the victory parade on stepping back inside to a fantastical coffee and heavenly biscuits. I haven’t used the salt spreader this year. The weather just isn’t icy enough. It wasn’t all that icy in December.
   Mild winters are the norm. But all the equipment is there for harsher weather, if the call to action comes from a horn blown in Valhalla. I have a snow shovel as wide as my snow brush. There are heavier coats and deeper layers of clothing handy.
   And there’s always coffee.
   Mild weather. Cold. All the colours of the rainbow, glinting in the snow on the garden. Quiet, punctuated by swishing as I brush. Now and then, a car goes by. On the second day, with a timid sun doing little to clear the roads, those cars swish by slowly.
   Today, snow fell at some point before the dawn. A feeble effort, it resembled bubbles of polystyrene. But the sun battled through thin cloud to melt the snowy road topping away. I took a quick tour of the paths and made short work of those. The coffee was still hard-earned, of course.
   It doesn’t matter that winter is mild. It only matters when winter is not so. And it doesn’t matter that Covid removed much of the need to trek anywhere. I still trek to the ends of the paths. Not exactly the ends of the earth, but I’ll take the exercise.
   From this point on, it’s freefall into February. February is the month of high wind and low expectation. Lashings of rain with a dash of more lashings of rain. If we see snow in that short month, it’ll just be the white of the snowdrops as they sneak up into gardens from the cold soil.
   Every year of dementia care, so far, I’ve avoided truly prehistoric harsh winters. Oh, the rain’s been fierce as hell. But I’ve yet to brush that from the paths.