A neighbor asked if my boys could shovel snow while she’s away.
I said yes.
This week she came over with an envelope.
Inside were three copies of instructions.
One for my 10th grader.
One for my 8th grader.
One for me.
One of the shovelers, a few winters ago.
The actual job was simple:
clear the sidewalk in front and up to the door.
Then came the backups.
If you can’t reach her, call her sister.
If you can’t reach her sister, call her husband’s friend.
She gave his cell.
And his home number.
If that doesn’t work, here’s their hotel in Florida.
And whose name the reservation is under.
I held the pages and realized how seriously she was taking this.
At a certain point, the sidewalk started to feel important.
All of this.
For snow.
A repeatable task should fit in one sentence:
When X happens, Y does Z.
If you need a second page, you’re adding comfort, not clarity.
No one will call the hotel.
