EDITOR’S NOTE: This column has appeared previously. You can read more of Pugh’s past columns in his book, “The Best of Vignettes,” available for sale at The News, 130 Park Place, Alpena.

There was a time when people didn’t take snowplows for granted. It was a time, too, when snowplow drivers didn’t take for granted being able to see on down the road.

Defrosters weren’t up to what we would now consider minimal standards, nor were the heaters. The wipers? Well, they worked off the engine’s vacuum pressure, such that, when you throttled on the power, the wipers stopped in mid-performance. It was as though they were experiencing a senior wiper moment.

Snowplows work by throwing snow, always have. The faster they go, the farther the snow flies, so plows often move right along.

Back in the day, when you saw a snowplow coming, you would take note of your position in relation to the plow’s projected path and snow-throw field. To that path, you would add a comfortable margin. There was a good reason for doing so.

Given the sporadic nature of the wipers’ operation, the lack of effectiveness of the defroster and heater, the fact that the plow was throwing snow — some of it back onto the truck’s windshield — and considering that the driver’s warm breath was being exhaled onto a windshield that was thrown-snow cold, it was no surprise that what resulted was a Jack Frost creation thickly laid.

As this speeding, snow-throwing cloud drew closer, you couldn’t help but note its driver’s vision obstruction — every part of the windshield was covered with frost.

However, if you looked closely — to a point just off the windshield’s center, on the driver’s side — you would see a small break in the consistency of the frost’s whiteness the size of two fingertips. It was that size because fingertips from the driver’s hand, pressed against the interior windshield glass, were what was creating it.

If you were one of those lucky people whose concentration could be focused for more than a few seconds, you would have been able to observe those fingertips occasionally lift, allowing the driver to peer through that fleeting opportunity to see where he was, where he was going, and what, if anything, was in front of him.

Sometimes, he would be able to.

Today, folks get excited by those self-guided cars scurrying about — they have no idea.

Jump ahead 50 years to this winter. I am riding in “Lead” City Plow No. 40, driven by Gene Northrup. We are followed by “Swamp” Truck No. 36, operated by Hank LaFleur. Together, we’re clearing streets over by St. John’s church. Things have changed.

The wipers are working, and stay working, even when Gene rolls on the power. The defroster keeps us frost-free, and the truck’s heater could drive us out. Gene’s experienced hand moves the levers of the plow’s hydraulic controls, setting the plow’s angle just right — the downward pressure just so — the speed only what it needs to be. All this to move the snow in just the right direction.

The “Swamp” truck comes along behind, receiving what the “lead” sends it, adding any snow it acquires, and delivering its sum to the curb. All this without taking out a mailbox or parked car, but still having time to return a wave from a resident whose drive he just filled with snow.

I suspect you and I have this in common with that resident: We have completed the heavy lifting necessary to clear the entrance to our driveways of both the snow that fell there and what a snowplow deposited — only to watch a “swamp” truck come along and fill it in again.

Now, I’m riding in one of those offenders. I’m on the throwing side of the driveway-plugging action, and I’m thrilled to be here. I admit to a measure of perverse pleasure in watching the plugging of what has been so recently cleared, but I realize this euphoric mood is fleeting, for, after my ride is over, I’ll be heading home — to shovel out my drive.

So will Gene and Hank.

Doug Pugh’s “Vignettes” runs weekly on Saturdays. He can be reached at pughda@gmail.com.