It has been thirteen months, plus a few days, since my accident with my Gilson snowblower. On December 15, 2007, I fired up the beast and wheeled it across the street to clear my neighbor’s driveway of the prior day’s heavy accumulation of snow. As I was about to finish the job (and to make a long story short) I stuck my hand into a place on the snowblower that I should not have, and was promptly relieved of about one-third of the middle finger on my right hand; the index finger was badly mangled also. Until today, the snow-blowin’-finger-eatin’ thing has been sitting in a back corner of my garage, scorned like a puppy that has chewed up the family Holy Bible.
I’m not sure how much snow we received last night, but it is claimed to have been the sixth heaviest snowfall recorded in the history of the weather record keeping system here. All through the night, the snow fell , the wind sighed, and I slept fitfully as Mr. Gilson called to me like some evil creature in a Stephen King novel from its place of banishment.
“Noslig, noslig,” it murmered.
This morning, after a hearty breakfast, and four cups of coffee to bolster my courage, I dressed warmly and marched outside to confront my old nemesis with the same determination that I felt the first time I climbed into a roller coaster cart. My hands were trembling slightly, but they kind of shake regardless, so that was no true indicator to me as to whether or not I was experiencing any anxiety about what might be happening in the next few minutes. Before I went outside, I thought I should let Claudia know – just in case she wanted to keep the phone handy – and was admonished in return.
“I hope you’re not going to try to use that snowblower,” she warned.
I gave her my tough-guy look and simultaneously thought to myself, Maybe she’s right. Maybe I could just wait until the next big snow and then get Mr. Gilson out. Besides, another year in the garage might just render the thing useless.
I grabbed my snow shovel, took one scoop of the foot deep snow, and quickly realized that it would take a very long time to clear my driveway – and possibly suffer a heart attack in the process.
“Noslig… noslig…” the beast whispers.
A few minutes later I am standing behind Mr. Gilson grasping the handles like an Amish farmer hanging on to his plow behind a pair of Belgian draft horses. On the second pull of the starter rope, Mr. Gilson sputters then roars. The deep throbbing sound of the six horse motor quickly allays my trembling hands, and soon the snow does fly. There is not much sweeter than two old friends turned enemies who have reconciled.
Oh how the time does pass so quickly when we do those things that provide so much pleasure! Three hours later my driveway and sidewalks are clear – along with the same of several of my neighbors. I did refrain from clearing the street; saved it for the local street department plows.
A salute from Stubby
My Gilson snowblower is back in the garage now in a place of prominence, near the front door – ready for the next round of snow should it come, and I still have 9 2/3 fingers – counting my thumbs of course.
Grampy Lash 