The Sandman Cometh

I like having a supply of necessary items on-hand, including sand. Last Saturday, although warm for this time of year, still allowed for a slippery layer of ice to remain on our gravel driveway in the early morning. Normally, I would let that kind of thing slide, but my wife was having the neighbor ladies over for brunch, and even though some skimming and skating would be amusing to watch from my second-floor bedroom window, she wanted some sand put down over the ice to avoid any crunch. I got on my coat and went outside to assess the hazardous conditions.

We have had more ice than snow this year, so I have learned to shimmy, shake and shuffle as I move across the ice. It takes some concentration and perhaps a little more time to make my way from the house to the barn, but on that day I was in no hurry, as I had an hour before the second cup was to be poured (the first one was mine).

I keep some sand in a garbage can just inside the barn for such a time as this. When I peered inside I was surprised at how little sand was left, a metaphor about the passage of time, I suppose. There was perhaps thirty pounds in there – enough to fill a bucket, but not near enough to cover a rural driveway. Taking both the can and the bucket I went back to the ice.

Not worrying about spilling, as it was going to end up on the ice anyway, I carelessly poured the sand from the can into the bucket. Wishing I had asked Santa for a spreader, I flung the sand about with my free hand much like Johnny Appleseed would have done (only different). Casting my fate to the wind, I imagined the sandman putting smiles on slumbering children as he went on his rounds.

When the bucket was empty I went back to the barn to scratch up more grit. Many years ago I had invested in some tubes of sand. The tubes, which come in sixty and seventy pound sizes, had been purchased to place in the bed of a pickup truck which had a propensity to slide around corners and leave the road. The sand remains, whereas the truck is gone.

I was glad that I was out of the seventy-pound bags, as the smaller ones were heavy enough to hoist off the floor. Initially, I was surprised at how quickly the buckets of sand were being emptied. When I had gone through the first sixty-pound bag I had considered calling it good enough until I slipped and almost fell.

Retreating to the barn for another bag, I retraced my steps and filled in the meager areas to help people find firm footing. When I had finished spreading the last of the one hundred and fifty pounds of sand I wondered if some chemical ice-melt would have been better or maybe even some salt.

I knew I didn’t have enough of either lying around the place, but perhaps I could have gone to the one of the neighbors and asked to borrow several hundred cups of salt.