At the end of winter, there is much this city teaches me about how civilization conquers nature, or rather how it acts out its conquest.
This weekend I helped my girlfriend Tess break up ice in her back yard to prevent her basement from flooding when the big melt came. Ice breaking is a primally satisfying activity. You find a chunk of ice that looks defiant and you approach it with authority and a steel shovel. When the weather is just right your victory is assured. The first blow of the shovel blade announces your presence. The second and third cut a thin groove in the ice, a target for further blows. After an hour of self-taught shovel technique, I realize that the secret of shoveling is much like the secret of chopping wood: let the axe (or in this case the shovel blade) do the work. I lift the shovel loosely let it dangle in the air for a moment (while for some inexplicable reason the words “I sacrifice you in the name of Quetzalcoatl” run through my mind) and bring it down with a relaxed stroke on target. After a few strokes comes the payoff. The crystal lattice of the ice gives way and a chunk breaks off with a resigned sigh. I break off one piece of ice so large it would make a very satisfactory front desk at an ice hotel. This is the beauty of ice. It resists, but when it breaks, it does so with a delightful suddenness. Remember the crumbling glaciers in Al Gore’s An Inconvenient Truth. (more…)