He Lives in a Matchbox

I was very grateful we have had the winter we have had so far this season. I did not dance in the street all 'Look at me, I'm Sandra Dee' full of schadenfreude, while watching The Weather Channel reports on four feet of snow in Square Butte, Montana or Dickshooter, Idaho. 

I have patience, if not faith or hope. I figured we'd get ours. And we did. Something else I have is a snow blower. And while there are certainly other ways to spend not inconsequential portions of the weekend, reading Proust, digging Django are two that come to mind (though not mine), neither does a whole lot of positive about moving that pile of snow the city plow dumped at the foot of the driveway.  

Brute Force, and Ignorance-at your service. Five forward speeds and two reverse. Sometimes I'm not sure if I'm guiding the snowblower or an anchor it's trying to slip. Most of the time outside, I just pray it doesn't turn on me since next to nothing I've ever been involved in with it seems to so much as slow it down. Get too close to the chute and I'd have a whole new career in landscaping, as ground cover. 

We have four seasons here in New England. The fourth arrived, more or less, Friday. I suspect it'll be staying a spell, so keep the shovels and the scrappers close by. I keep mine on the shelf next to the snowblower, one of the finest inventions in the history of Christendom. While you stare at your boots, and the words float out like holograms, ponder that. If you don't think so, ask someone who owns one. My hand's up, feel free to call on me.
-bill kenny