Ice in my underwear makes me fidget.

But frozen shoelaces stay tied.

I had been up early, writing in the glow of my Barney Fife nightlight. It’s my job. Not everyone considers it a proper job. My brother-in-law says that anything a man can do while sitting around the house in his underwear is not a real job. He thinks being related to me is a job.

I had enjoyed a low-fat breakfast. I didn’t mean to, but the potpourri looked like trail mix. As my stomach turned, I noticed that Boreas had blown a snowdrift of epic proportions right in front of the garage. It was a single drift because, after its completion, Boreas was laughing so hard he had no more wind.

“Your Christmas presents are under all that snow,” said my wife, The Queen B, as she rubbed the sleep from her eyes.

A little snow fell and my wife used it as an excuse to redecorate the outdoors.

I ran outside into the foreboding darkness. I employed an old grain shovel until my oil light came on.

I’m a good shoveler. I can scoop, but my strength lies in leaning on a shovel and boasting of past shoveling exploits. I am as good at shoveling snow as the next guy as long as the next guy is someone who has never left Hawaii.

I needed a snow catapult. I could have launched a ton of snow at a time in the shape of a gigantic snowman. When Frosty attacks, I imagined my poor neighbors saying, “What is that crazy Batt doing now? Oh, no! Run for your lives!”

I’ve shoveled corn, oats, sand, cow manure, chicken droppings and snow. I’ve shoveled in my sleep. Disney will never make shoveling a ride. I doubt there has been a Hallmark special about shoveling.

My eyelashes froze and an ear fell to the ground with a clatter. I grew weary. No part of me felt like running except my nose. I tried to frolic, but I hadn’t the time to build a snowman or to toss a snowball playfully.

My wife peered from the window, watching for deserters. She had a maniacal glint in her eye as she knitted socks out of cat hairballs. I hadn’t seen that look since the day I saved time by washing the clothes and the dishes together. It’s hard to believe that this was the same woman who wore a garlic necklace and brought along a snarling guard dog on our first date.

I shoveled in the pursuit of presents. I hoped for a new pet rock. I had skipped my old one across a lake. She’d probably gotten me that clue she claimed I should get.

I shoveled the snow away. There were no presents. I should have waited for the Shovel Fairy. The Queen B had tricked me. She needed to get to work. She had to go and so did the snow.

We do what we can to survive winter. Some people chop holes into the ice, but they don’t fish as a nearly sane person would. Instead, they jump into the frigid water. I have done that. Not on purpose. It’s an annual tradition for the youngest child in the Batt family to walk onto the paper-thin ice of the Le Sueur River and fall into the icy waters. Life is a minefield. I acted when opportunity cracked. There was no time to test the water with a toe. I’d be walking along with my trusty stick. I needed a trusty stick because my trusty canine was too smart to walk on fragile ice. I became one with nature — a giant goose pimple. A scream preceded some healthy sobbing. I practiced using words that I should never use. I recommend an icy plunge for anyone who doesn’t already have an event in the Misery Olympics.

The walk home lasted as long as the Super Bowl including both pregame and postgame. My warm socks weren’t. My mother pretended not to notice as I whimpered my way into the house. I couldn’t talk due to a frozen tongue. I was blue in color as my mother said sweetly, “There is some of that vanilla ice cream you like in the freezer.”

My mother had raised children before. She tried not to get too excited about catastrophes. She once signed an absentee slip for me this way, “Please excuse Allen from school yesterday. I kept him at home because absence makes the heart grow fonder.”

Winter is why people spend it in Texas, Arizona, and Florida.

When it comes to wintering, I consider myself a professional, but I can never remember if I am supposed to turn into or away from a skid during global warming.

Hartland resident Al Batt’s columns appear every Wednesday and Sunday.