Watching the local weather forecast predicting perhaps an inch or so of snow for our area in the South Carolina Upstate, I texted Paul so that when he finished his evening meeting at our church he would stop to pick up dog food for our Rosie. When he appeared an hour later he was Paul Newman’s Organic Chicken can-less.

“Didn’t you get my text?” I asked as he unloaded his gear from a long day which had included a gym work out, an eye appointment and then being a member of the church finance committee.

“Yeah,” he replied, “but I wasn’t anywhere near a grocery store that stocks it.”

I didn’t need to remind him that Rosie’s 15-year-old pancreas only happily accepts Newman’s Own. Trying to grab something from the local Dollar Store wasn’t an option, so I quietly remarked, “She’s got one can left and I already gave her dinner out of it and with the snow coming…”

“She’ll be fine,” he said with the monotone that many a husband drops into when the female in their life begins to percolate with alarm.

The following morning it was clear that the ‘Super Doppler Gigantor Weather’ computer had made a break for it and booked a cruise because when I headed out to the barn we already had a good four inches on the ground, with another two to come. I entertained myself by pretending to be competing in the 2018 Manure Luge Championships as I slid down the hill behind the wheelbarrow, then shoving and grunting, pushed it over the snow cloaked ramp into an abyss sharing the same name as a recently described Caribbean island.

“Just over a minute,” I punched the air as I came in the house. “A personal best!”

Paul didn’t answer as he was shrugging on his overcoat.

“Where are you going?” I asked.

“To get Rosie’s dog food,” he said.

I stared at him blankly for a moment then incredulously replied, “In this? Are you nuts?”

“I think the Subaru can handle it,” he said, matter of factly.

It then dawned on me that Paul was suffering from an acute case of Man-Snow Syndrome. I’ve seen it before on occasion and as long as they are reminded their insurance rates will be hiked up should they slide into a tree or into the bumper of the other men suffering the same condition, the recovery rate is quite successful.

The root cause of Man-Snow Syndrome seems to be the fevered desire to release one’s masculinity. In today’s technologically advanced world where a key fob has replaced the natural chivalry of opening a car door for a woman, and an SUV has replaced Poldark on his equally long maned steed, Seamus, modern man has little opportunity to test his testosterone. In the summer it’s a piece of cake–barbecues abound calling to man’s inner nature: raw meat, fire, sharp implements. But in the winter, particularly after one’s team doesn’t advance in the play-offs, a man’s masculinity is on mute as he is then subjected to eat endless stir-frys and suffer through countless episodes of House Hunters.

And then the first snowflake falls. Then another. And with the excitement of a child pressing his nose against the windowpane and waiting for Santa, the man awaits until the snow has begun to blanket the area amid warnings of dangerous travel on television. It is at precisely this moment that the man pulls on his LL Bean anorak and Timberline boots and clomps confidently toward his all-wheel drive, ice scraper in hand, leaving his fair maiden wringing her hands at the front door and wailing (or bellowing), “Don’t be ridiculous! Why didn’t you go last night before it snowed?!”

‘Because a man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do,’ his backward glance declares as he prepares to both tackle and dominate the weather, also known as that she devil, Mother Nature. Windshield cleared of snow, Paul got inside the Subaru and shifting into first gear, made his way carefully down the long drive towards the street. I busied myself by feeding Rosie and sweeping up four more stinkbugs. In 40 minutes he returned and shaking off his coat and boots over the mudroom sink, I asked him how it went.

“Piece of cake,” he replied airily. “The car hunkered down and was as solid as a rock. Didn’t slip or slide once.”

With that he handed over the bag that contained the results of his hunting-gathering expedition: half a dozen cans of Newman’s Own Organic Chicken dog food.

My hero…