It does not matter how long it snows. It does not matter how much it snows. It only matters when it stops. Mere moments later, garage doors roll up almost simultaneously and the roar of snowblowers fills the air.
We all mow our lawns, but that can happen any day of the week. At any time. But blowing is a unified experience. We emerge from our garages and push our blowers up and down the driveway in a steady, zombie-like walk. Straight lines, one path carefully overlapping the previous one. Same pace. Back and forth. Stepford blowers. Moving in sync as if controlled by some central intelligence.
It is a bonding moment. As we reach the end of the driveway and make our turn, we nod and wave to the neighbor across the street, never quite sure if that is the 'him' or the 'her' underneath the down parka and hood with the scarf covering much of the face. He/She looks more like the Stay-Puf man than the neighbor who actually lives in the house.
Eventually the walks and drives are clear and we move back into the garage, moving at the same steady, unbroken pace with which we began. The garage doors roll down behind us, leaving the street in silence.
A passerby just minutes later would never know the precision performance they had just missed.