Snowstorms, Neighbors, and the Things That Stay With Us

On Sunday the first big snowstorm of the year hit. We got close to a foot in some spots, and it wasn’t the light fluffy stuff — it was the heavy, wet snow that sticks to your shovel and makes you rethink every life choice. As I’ve done the last two winters, I walked over to our neighbor Sue’s house, borrowed her big snowblower, and cleared her driveway before I did ours.

It’s my way of thanking her for how she treated my dad for nearly three decades.

Two years ago we moved back to Alpena, the little town in northern Michigan where I grew up and where my parents lived for almost all their lives. As most of you know, we came home to help care for my dad, Howard, who had dementia. We didn’t plan on staying permanently, but life redirected us, and after Dad passed we bought our little ranch home — one we’ve grown to love.

The week we moved in, we saw an older lady working on her hedges next door. Short, gray hair, noticeable limp. We went over to introduce ourselves and offer a hand.

“I’ve got it,” Sue said. Not rude, just matter-of-fact. She made it clear she could handle it, and honestly, her toughness was impressive. She’d limp to the next bush, climb onto her stool, trim away, and move on like it was nothing.

When I introduced myself, she looked up.
“Are you Howard’s boy?”
“I am — the youngest.”

The stern expression disappeared instantly. The neighbor, unsure about the loud new family next door suddenly wasn’t unsure at all.

Sue works at a tiny local gas station called Shalla’s. It’s connected to a mechanic shop — the same shop my parents took their cars to for as long as I can remember. The kind of place where the owner would tell you, “You don’t need new brakes yet,” words you don’t hear much anymore. Sue’s worked there nearly 30 years.

Shalla’s is on the rougher side of town, but it was right down the street from the small company my dad ran for 35 years. And five days a week, like clockwork, he stopped in for his morning coffee, apple fritter, and newspaper. And almost every day, Sue was there behind the counter.

And she listened.

My dad loved telling stories. “Stop me if you’ve heard this,” he’d say — which was funny, because you had heard it, and no, you couldn’t stop him. Sue heard every version of every story, and she never once tried to cut him off.

What she didn’t know was how much he needed that.

My dad was hard on himself. He ran a nonprofit that helped mentally and physically disabled adults find work in the community. When things weren’t going well, he carried that weight alone. But every morning at Shalla’s, things were simple: a coffee, a donut, a newspaper, and someone who saw him as more than the stress he hid from everyone else. Someone happy to hear whatever story he felt like telling. That routine — that little pocket of normal — steadied him more than she ever realized.

Sue called him “old fart.” He was one year older than her, and he loved it. He’d tell her about his fishing trips, and he’d bring her and her husband fresh trout he’d caught on the spinners he made. When my dad retired, Sue said her mornings at the gas station just weren’t the same.

Sue’s limp has become more noticeable over the last couple of years. She lost her husband to cancer some time ago, and since then she’s had to learn how to do everything on her own. She’s still stubborn as ever, and I’ve learned when to offer help and when to just let her go. Yesterday she didn’t argue — she knew this kind of heavy snow needed the “big snowblower,” the one she can’t manage anymore. But she still wouldn’t go inside. Instead, she stood out there shoveling the little corners and tight spots the snowblower can’t reach.

There’s a certain kind of stubbornness you find in small towns — the kind that keeps people going long after life has given them reasons to slow down. Sue has it. My dad had it. It’s probably why their little morning routine worked for both of them.

Yesterday, after I finished her driveway, I asked her about my dad.
“He was just always so kind, I miss him.”
“Me too, Sue,” I said. “Me too.”

In a world full of big gestures, Sue gave my dad something simple and steady. And sometimes that’s what keeps a person going.

‍