From under the snow, a renewal of spirit.

A fearless bunny emerges from its burrow to survey its snowy surroundings.

Most of you are aware that southeastern Massachusetts and surrounding regions have been blessed with a late-February snowfall that rivaled, and maybe surpassed, the ferocity and tragedy of the two-day storm in February 1978 that caught the entirety of New England by surprise.

And yes, I'm smack-dab in the middle of it. 

Here at La Casa Farinella in Mansfield, Mass., the snowfall appears to be a fairly consistent 24-26 inches through most of my yard, although that's an estimate based upon a number of factors, including a yardstick lashed to the post lantern in front of the house. The closest I got to being able to actually measure any of the snow was when I opened my garage door to find a significant area of drift piled up against it. The tape measure recorded 36 inches at its worst, and 28 at its lowest point. 

Needless to say, I am trapped within my house. I have someone coming later this week to dig me out, but fortunately, I have adequate supplies of bread, milk, pasta and sauce and Dr Pepper Zero to tide me over until I am reconnected to the outside world. But I am particularly pissed off that I couldn't free myself. 

It takes a while, but I can clear my own driveways.

I have two pieces of mechanical snow-removal equipment, a three-year-old Toro electric snowblower that can handle 12-inch snowfalls with ease but is overmatched by this sort of event, and a small and ancient Toro "electric broom" that I've had since the 1970s. It is surprisingly effective at knocking down the top level of heavy snowfalls if I use it in a rocking, back-and-forth motion -- as long as I don't disconnect the extension cord that brings it life from a garage outlet.

With a lot of perseverance and a heavy dosage of Aleve, I suppose I could have devoted most of yesterday to the effort of carving out a 70-foot by 12-foot path to the street for the SUV to traverse. I also have a spur to the driveway that leads to a second garage door, but I have surrendered to the notion that I won't need the convertible stored within until April.

I did manage to carve out a 3-foot semicircle around the entrance to my main garage door through a mix of snow-sweeping, snowblowing and old-fashioned shoveling. But it didn't take long before I realized that this was far exceeding the limits of my physical ability -- some naturally because of my advanced age (I am 72 years old, after all. Neither of my grandfathers made it past that point.) and because of the ravages that have been inflicted upon my body during this particularly harsh winter.

In heavy snow, I clear only one path.

After two full winters without significant snowfalls, we were due. And we've been socked in the mouth several times this year to pay that debt. Just a couple of weeks ago, we had 12-14 inches dropped on us by a storm that was supposedly edging out to sea, but caught us by surprise on its back end. I was able to handle that amount with relative ease -- attacking the driveway twice during the storm so it would be easier to clear for good once the weather cleared, then attending to the spur driveway a week later to briefly free the convertible from its prison.

We had a smaller event a few days later, and that was easy as well. But during the town's snow removal effort, the street plows dislodged some of the frozen mounds along the edge of the sidewalk, and left that residue in front of my driveway entrance and everyone else's on the street. It was easier to just drive over those slabs of ice for a few days, but when forecasts of this weekend's nor'easter became dire, I thought it would be a good idea to clear the space in front of the driveway a little better.

And that was a big mistake.

As you know if you've followed these posts, I've had bad knees for a long time. I usually just strap them up with neoprene braces and head out into battle at times like this. I also seem to have developed some back pain since the first major snowstorm -- understandable for a 72-year-old man trying to do what challenges much younger men. So when I got to the sidewalk and started pushing the slushy residue out of the way before it froze, I was hobbling. Then, I had the misfortune of stepping on a flat slab of ice that was covered from slush and hidden from view. It shot out from under my foot and suddenly, my balance was entirely lost.

In what seemed like an eternity, I thought I was going to be able to regain my balance and not fall. But just as I thought I had achieved that, my right knee buckled -- and that sent me straight to the asphalt. I had enough presence of mind to shift my fall so I would land on my right shoulder and thus protect my head, but I hit hard -- and I felt a white-hot, searing wave of pain upon impact.

I thought I had broken my arm or my shoulder at first, but as I lay there flat on the street, I found that I was able to move the arm and manipulate my fingers normally. I turned over on my knees, crawled about 3 feet to the fence at the edge of my property and grabbed the chain links with my left hand, giving me the leverage I needed to stand.

Still flushed with adrenaline, I was able to ignore the pain and shock and push the snowblower around a few more times, then drag it up my driveway to the garage. Upon going inside the house and shedding my excess layers of clothing to check for bruising or other damage, I saw none -- but I could not lift my arm beyond horizontal to the ground, and even that was a struggle.

Because it was late on a Saturday and a storm was coming, I decided against a trip to urgent care or a local hospital. I could still drive left-handed and my arm functioned normally below shoulder level, so I fashioned a sling out of Ace bandages and spent the rest of the night sitting in the recliner and watching Mad Men on HBO Max.

That's how I entered Sunday's storm -- literally, on a wing and a prayer. 

The shoulder has improved some over the last three days. Mobility is still limited, but almost normal below chest level -- and I can help the arm to horizontal without excruciating pain. But I certainly can't go nine innings. Even typing is somewhat of an adventure, but at least it's manageable. I may have to have this wing looked at by a doctor once we get through all the disruptions that this storm's aftermath will cause.

I am also fortunate that I'm not scheduled to work again until Friday of this week. Right now, the Mansfield High School boys' and girls' basketball teams are scheduled to play in a MIAA Tournament doubleheader at home, but that may be at risk if some of the preliminary-round games scheduled for Wednesday are postponed. One way or another, I can chill and heal for a while.

Now, however, would be a good time to return to the topic and explain the photo at the top of this missive. 

It was after digging only 3 feet out into the driveway that I parked my butt under the open liftback of the SUV inside the garage, and assessed my situation. I was angry that there was a ton of snow still waiting to be moved, frustrated that my personal stubbornness forced me to attempt to do it myself, sad and in pain because of the damage I had inflicted upon myself, and generally depressed. I've talked a lot in this space about my "second act" as a retired gentleman of leisure, but I was feeling trapped and helpless as an old man coming to grips with the limitations of age.

And then I heard something.

It was a very faint crunching noise, so faint that I probably couldn't have heard it if not for the fact that there was no traffic on the nearby main streets and thus hardly any background noise. In the eerie silence of the snowbound neighborhood, the sound of tiny feet on the loosely-packed snow was clear as a bell.

I looked up. It was a little bunny, a precious little soul that had crawled up from its burrow close to my house's foundation (it's warmer there and a good place for wild rabbits to hunker down during the winter) to survey the surroundings and maybe even to determine the source of the disruption of its solitude.

These precious bunnies fill me with joy.

Long-time readers know that I have a great and enduring affinity for the bunnies that call my yard home. They entertain me with their presence in great numbers during the warmer months, and I will sit for hours watching them go about their bunny duties. Sometimes they remain skittish for the entire year, but more recently, they seem to recognize me -- or, at least, they get used to me as something that's not a threat -- and even approach me when they hear my voice. Given that they are not domesticated, I welcome their tolerance as somewhat of an accomplishment.

Anyway, this particular bunny had made its way from ground level to a spot on a snowdrift above a planter and retaining wall at the edge of my driveway. Of course, upon seeing it, I shouted, "BUNNY!" out of sheer joy of seeing another living being that was not afraid to make its presence known under the glare of the floodlight shining down from the top of my garage. 

Upon hearing me, the bunny turned its head and looked straight at me. I feared it would panic upon seeing a winter-garbed human nearby and run away, but it didn't. So again, I spoke to it. "Stay there," I pleaded. "Stay there so I can take a picture of you! I have to preserve this moment!" Of course, I seriously doubt that wild rabbits understand English ... but I was hoping that maybe this was one of the bunnies that got used to me during the previous summer and somehow recognized the non-threatening tone of my voice.

To my joy, the bunny stood still. And since I was texting to a friend at the moment when it arrived on the scene, I had the iPhone in hand and needed only a second to turn on the camera. I did, hoping the floodlighting was sufficient to take a decent photo without blurring, and I hit the button. Not long after, the bunny decided to retreat to warmer surroundings. 

The photo was what you see above. I texted it to my friend, another bunny lover, and she was thrilled to see it. I then posted it on Instagram and Facebook, and got lots more likes for it than anything else I have posted in quite a while.

And suddenly, my depression was gone. It was replaced by renewed optimism and confidence that things would get better. My attempt to clear my driveway may have been an ignominious defeat, but I was suddenly reminded of how insignificant that was in the grand scheme of things. 

My driveway will eventually be cleared. My arm will eventually heal. Life will return to normal soon enough, the snow will disappear and the yard will turn green, and it won't be that long at all until, God willing, I'll be sitting in my backyard in sunshine and 80-degree temperatures, chatting with my bunny friends with nary a care about what anyone might think about that.

And all it took was the well-timed appearance of one fearless bunny on a cold and inhospitable February night.

How about that.

MARK FARINELLA, an avowed fan of bunnies, may be reached by email at theownersbox2020.com.