What Good is a Snowblower That Doesn't Blow?

We've all been there, looking out from the warmth of inside, our eyes large like dessert plates, watching the falling snow. The burble of excitement for accumulating fluff. We think snow angels. snowmen, snow balls, rollicking through the drifts and white washing our unsuspecting friend. What we don't think about seriously, until we're adults at least, is the duty of clearing walkways, driveways and porches. When we're young it's just a chore added on to the endless list of to-do's forced upon us from our parents. A seasonal addition.

Sure, a shovel does the trick. The repetitive scoop, toss, scoop makes for good exercise but it also exhausts the aching bodies of post-adolescents. And that, my friends, is why we all invest in snow blowers.

The relative ease of turning the ignition (or pulling the lawnmower-esque cord for the older models) is mere child's play compared to the hunched back and strained arms of shovelling. The light forward pressure applied to the handles to start the machine in its slow march through the heaps of snow, whether it be hard and iced or light and airy, is almost too easy. The slow crank of the lever to re-direct the shoot of snow, is almost meditative. And when you're done you simply park the beast and admire the ruffled edges of the snow banks, tapering off where the farthest snow landed.

What really blows, is when you wait all morning for the snow to stop without any mid-way shovel or dent in the accumulation. I'll just blow it all away, you think to yourself. Sure in your plan. Just like I've done a million times before. You recall the envied look of your neighbours, blushed with strain and huffing small clouds of hoarfrost as they struggle to finish the job.

The snow stops falling and you strut outside, sure footed as you make your way to the garage. Smirking as you wade through the knee-high powder, you think what a blast this will be -- literally. The giant, rotating teeth of the snow blower will chew through this dump fast enough to get you inside for the second half -- no problem. You tweak the ignition, push her to the top where the rabbit signifies speed, prime the gas and turn the key --nothing. Must be cold, you think to yourself and yank the cord. Nothing. Ah, the good old electric start, that always works. You plug it into the outlet and saunter back to the machine, push the automatic start button and... nothing.

For-crying-out-loud, the damn thing won't work. Now what? Do you admit defeat and grab shovel? Risk being seen by those same struggling neighbours, deflated from your regularly gloating self? Are you less than a man? Less than a woman? Has your rough-and-tough snow blowing extension of yourself failed you? Hindsight comes slapping back and you peer out from the clouded garage window at the 3 feet of heavy snow wishing you had picked up shovel mid-storm. You consider hiding in the garage until the neighbours have returned inside for dinner, then swiftly and without sound shovelling at the speed of light to avoid being seen. But it's all just pride and you realize that pride won't clear the walkways or allow for a car to get out. So you rummage through the depth of the garage until you find the old steel shovel, rusted on the corners and curved with years of use.

Ah, It's just like being a kid again.