While I, like most everyone, was watching the Super Bowl, a third of the country was being socked with an incredible blizzard. Here in Chicago, as we were reminded by TV weathermen, the accumulation reached historic proportions. At just under 20 inches, February 2, 2015 marked the fifth biggest snowfall since we started keeping track of such things.

It was hard to fathom the immensity of this vertical milestone when so much of the white stuff seemed to be blowing side to side at gale force velocities. Fortunately, I only had to walk ¾ of a block to get home from where I enjoyed a wide screen viewing of the game and the very hyped 30-second slots advertisers doled out big bucks for.

Despite the short distance, as each step meant going knee-deep in snow, getting home took almost thirty minutes.

The day after, I counted myself lucky that I was able to work from home. I also considered my good fortune that I was able to take my time to shovel out the space between the back of my building and the alley.

For three days, venturing out was kept to a minimum, and, of course, I walked to as many places as I could because side streets in Chicago are very difficult for a car to navigate after a blizzard. During these short excursions on foot, I passed lawn chairs and buckets, large plastic flowerpots and laundry baskets that marked parking spaces where cars had been dug out…and where the person who cleared the spot hoped to return.

Dibs!

When I was in my twenties and thirties, I used to balk at the idea of DIBS. The parkway belongs to everyone, I thought. How ridiculous to think someone has the right to a space because they ran the edge of a shovel over it!

In many neighborhoods, the issue sparks quite a controversy.

Although I would prefer to see everyone helping each other out and neighbors shoveling out their whole block together, I can identify with the idea of dibs and can appreciate how the tradition is honored on most city streets.

Just as even the most bad-assed outlaw in the Old West would probably not shoot a man in the back, some things are just NOT DONE. Call it deference to local custom. I can appreciate how, in most working class neighborhoods, you just don’t mess with the sanctity of two lawn chairs arranged six feet apart between snow drifts on the street.

You don’t marry your first cousin. You don’t do anything nasty to your upstairs neighbor’s noisy kids (even though you’ve thought about it). You don’t cut in line at a grocery store checkout or at a theater box office. You don’t steal a bicycle even though the seat is still attached and the bike has not been Kryptonite^® locked to a rack. And you don’t pay marked prices at a yard sale. These things just aren’t done where I come from.

Yes, things can get unreasonably legalistic in our society. I’m not advocating any special type of protections that mostly protect the contract writers, but I am glad I live where the Golden Rule, “do unto others…” principles are generally honored and local customs mean something.

Whether you live in a Dibs or No Dibs neighborhood, living where you have an unspoken agreement about shared values is no small thing.