The heavy snow arrived early this year, draping our fair town and county in a blanket more fitting for late March than early November. It was the kind of snow that silenced the world, muffling the usual hum of daily life so completely that the one day the school district called off, turned into the remainder of the week.

As a teenager who has lived my entire life between Rampart Range and Gold Hill, I’ve seen my fair share of winter storms, but this one felt different — more intense, more immediate.

Our driveways aren’t particularly long, and thus the likely reason that from my earliest winters until now, we have always shoveled our driveway by hand. It usually becomes a family affair, but only after a couple of my more intrepid siblings decide they are going to go make a start at it followed by others who, through either guilt or obligation, take their own turns until a very sizable job becomes easier.

The first thrust of the shovel into the clean snow always feels like breaking a spell.

The silence gives way to the crunching of snow underfoot and the synchronized scraping sounds, all too human, linger over our work. Each scoop tossed aside a small victory, a tangible measure of progress, if however small.

As the years have passed though, the sounds of mechanization seem to have gotten louder until nowadays, our shoveling almost goes unnoticed. It’s not that I dislike others who wield their snowblowers out after a long summer hibernation or look down upon the private plows that systematically start their rounds in our neighborhood.

But I don’t envy them.

There’s a part of me that wonders if my family is stuck in the past, throwing aside modern convenience for manual labor. But when I look at my siblings, cheeks flushed, breaths forming little clouds as we finish our work, there’s a connection there — one I don’t want to go away.

Shoveling by hand isn’t just about clearing the driveway. It’s a practice in patience. It teaches me that some things are worth doing the hard way and that not every aspect of life needs to be expedited. In the steady rhythm of work, there’s space for thought and for appreciation of the world that looks familiar and yet totally new at the same time.

As we finish the last stretch of both our driveways, I feel a sense of accomplishment that’s hard to replicate. My muscles ache and my fingers are numb, but there’s a warmth that comes from within.

This snowstorm, unexpected as it was, offered a lesson. In a world increasingly focused on doing things faster, there’s immense value in slowing down.

It’s not that using machines is wrong or that efficiency lacks merit. But for me, there is joy in the manual, the tactile, and the work as reward. While the rest of the world may hurry along, engines roaring and schedules pressed, I’ll cherish these snowy mornings. I’ll find contentment in the simplicity of a shovel in hand, the crisp winter air, and the understanding that sometimes the old fashioned way holds a lesson worth sharing.

Ruth Wiseman is a Woodland Park native and a dual-enrolled high school student attending Pikes Peak State College.