For many years, a sign has hung in our home briefly stating what Herself claims is the little publicized 11th commandment of God in Her infinite wisdom: Thou Shall Not Whine. As Herself is the product of 13 plus years of Catholic education, primarily under the tutelage of the Sisters of Saint Joseph, who am I to argue theology with her. This 11th commandment was strictly enforced by Herself especially when the boys were young and tween and teen crises came head to tail. Alas, this winter has driven me to break the commandment.

This year I am taking the weather personally. I am positive that I am being punished for not having been nicer or more obedient to my dear departed mother. Successive storms are beginning to wear me down. For most of my adult life I have been a gym rat, and though built for comfort not speed I consider myself in pretty good shape for a man of my chronological, if not psychological, maturity. Yet these twice or thrice weekly “snow-robics” exercises are beginning to take their toll. After clearing our fairly long and steep drive I come in asking Herself if she got the registration number of the truck that hit me. The end of the drive is now buttressed with ice banks, not snow banks, that would have made my old field fortifications instructor proud. No mas!

As my mass transit colleagues will testify, taking the commuter rail to Boston has been an adventure this winter. Apparently the MBTA doesn’t put too much priority on keeping parking lots and the train platforms clear of snow and ice. The Hanson station is a trial lawyer’s dream. We’ve seen dance moves in the parking lot that would hands down win “Dancing With the Stars.” The Bruins would be reluctant to venture out on that ice. Add to that very late trains, no heat in the cars and doors that won’t open, and we can all agree that commuting is not for sissies. Of course, the walk from South Station to the office is an adventure that would test Sir Edmund Hillary. The city should station Saint Bernards with brandy kegs and an EMT at each intersection. The fancy paving stones are so thrust by frost heaves that they resemble the Burren country in Galway, Ireland or some lava field. No mas!

Lately we’re beginning to see a little melting when the storms contain what the meteorologists euphemistically call “a wintry mix.” The ice dams on peoples’ roofs are now starting to rival the Grand Coulee Dam. Lord help us if we get a week of 40 degree weather. Insurance adjusters will be working overtime evaluating ceilings and walls. No mas!

Thirty-six years ago we relocated back home from Hawaii at the command of Herself. Each year at this time I delight in asking her just why that was. Ladies with a genteel education should not use those words. The brother-in-law and sister-in-law (aka the Brigadier General of Fashion Police) have decamped to West Palm Beach. Many of my colleagues smart enough to retire have also moved south for the winter. They obviously don’t have the stamina of us true New Englanders.

To finish this rant on a positive note: sincere thanks to Dick Harris and the Highway Department for the great work they are doing on our roads. Given these years of tight budgets, the results are consistently outstanding. Congratulations for a job well done. The groundhog says spring is coming soon; we hope he’s right.