The first one was fun; we all dug out together, smiling and wishing each other Merry Christmas! We were out in the evening, shoveling, amazed at the large flakes that fell so fast. We snapped dozens of pictures to share with family and friends in other climates. The mayor served hot chocolate to the kids sledding; school was out an extra two days for the holiday; we snowshoed through the neighborhood waving to the neighbors. The birdfeeders were full. Our neighbor plowed the road. The news was pictures of children sledding, travelers helping each other, good Samaritans abounded. "How lovely it all is; a white Christmas. What magic; peace on earth."

The second one was irritating, but we kept our spirits up. Having anticipated it, we made it to the store early and stocked up on food and drink. It was still holiday time; a stack of new books from the library waited on the table. We shoveled again, piling snow higher. The snowshoes helped to get to the birdfeeders and if they weren't filled on time, the flickers sat on the window sill looking in the house as if to say "we're hungry, you started this, feed us." Our neighbor plowed the road. The news was how unprecedented two in a row was: never in recorded history, how tired are the snowplow drivers; how stuck are the Christmas packages...

The third one is depressing; my husband's back is out; I have to shovel it by myself. The piles are so high that there is nowhere to put it. No one else is out; grim faces peek through the neighbor's window; and as this is a street to nowhere, no cars go by. The trash is piled high with no pickup for three weeks; we recycle a lot and the garage is full of bottles, cardboard and papers. The kumbaya effect has worn off as well. Old ladies fight over the last quart of half and half; men come to blows over a clear parking space at Wal-Mart. The lines in the stores are long; the toilet paper aisle is empty. (Why toilet paper?) The birds eat all the feed in a day and the slog to the feeders is almost too much. Our neighbor plowed the road.

The ubiquitous letters to the editor begin to appear, from the wearily predictable "we're from "back east" and they do it so much better there"; to the predictably nasty game of "who's the bigger idiot.....mayor, former mayor, SUV drivers, people from (fill in the blank)", to the truly bizarre "we don't need government to shovel us out; we can do it ourselves."

So what will a fourth one bring? Will we all move "back east" where is appears that our Denver weather has gone: to Chicago where they are golfing; to New York where the petunias are still blooming? Will we each adopt a stretch of the highway or an airport runway to clear? Will my neighbor tire of assuming the responsibility for plowing us out?

And yet: Geese fly over making me smile as I dig out the car; I see the fox slip through the fence to the street. The flickers chase the starlings from the feeder, and next week I begin Master Gardener classes. I stand at the window looking into the garden trying to remember the hot sun on my arms as I water the roma tomatoes. I try to remember the pole bean tepee and the wasp catcher filled with little dead wasps.