I don't know your neighbors, but I can imagine the kind of people they probably are. They're probably nice, decent folks who "mind their Ps and Qs," who "keep to themselves," who are fervent believers that "good fences make good neighbors." And, you know, since you live in such close proximity, they're necessarily invested in having a good relationship with you in the event that someday they need to borrow a ladder or kindly ask you to keep your Pekingese from lifting its leg on your lawn.
But guess what? I'm not your neighbor, I don't know you, so I don't have to mince words. I can speak my mind without fear of being ostracized or given the side-eye at the end of the driveway. I have carte blanche go full John Cook, so I will: if it just snowed, and you are preparing to drive somewhere, clean the snow off of your fucking car. All of it. I'll say it again, in a different way: clean the snow off of your fucking car, or SUV, compact, truck or sedan. Just do it.
Yes, you. You, numbskull, who cleared out a square the size of an open paperback in the dead center of your windshield, letting the car run for five minutes, then peeled out into wintry traffic. You are being watched, and judged, and silently cursed, as the winds of December and January peel off cutting sprays of snow that temporarily blind other drivers and huge chunks of snow that nail pedestrians. The law may not be coming down on you, but trust me, your name's in that great accounting ledger, along with crooked parkers, bad tippers, newspaper thieves, and nasty blog fruit flies.
The worst part is this: unless you are a) the driver of an 18-wheeler or b) old and/or infirm, you have no excuse not to clean off your car. (And if you are old/infirm, you're obliged to guilt or goad somebody younger, gullible, and more able-bodied to clean your car for you.) I don't care that you don't have an ice scraper; you don't need an ice scraper, or even a shovel, to uncover your car. All you need is a broom. A broom! You have one, don't you? Find it. Use it. Get into the car, start it, turn on the heat, then work over the vehicle with a broom—doors, bumpers, windows, roof, everywhere.
Boom, five minutes, you're done, and your conscience is as clean as your ride. Isn't that better than inching down the main boulevard of your town, hunched over, peering dumbly through a circle of glass the size of your gloved palm that is filling with the snow you couldn't be bothered to brush off as you swerve back and forth over the yellow line on the highway?