By Ken Anderson — Columnist
In anticipation of the first storm of the 2024-25 winter, I discovered that my snowblower would not start.
It was parked in our barn — well, our Reeds Ferry shed — for the warmer months. I headed to the shed, confident that, with some new gasoline and in the relatively warm weather, the machine would spring to life after a couple of pulls of the starter.
But no.
I dragged it the 50-plus yards to our garage and tried again. The comforting hum of the snowblower springing to life did not arise to stifle the silence in the garage. Ruling out the primal instinct to kick the machine, I decided to inspect the spark plug.
Good idea — but where are my socket wrenches?
I had just seen them a week earlier when we started to clean out our cellar to get it waterproofed. Now, the tools and other important detritus that had accumulated over 42 years of our residence were scattered among the boxes of other important stuff I had brought home from my office a year ago.
Hammers, hammers everywhere …
I looked in a tool box containing about 10 hammers and in another box with 20 screwdrivers. No luck. And then my racing mind realized that my car had a set that included a spark plug tool.
I cleaned the gasoline off the spark plug and looked for some sandpaper to clean the gap. Of course, the location of the sandpaper was as elusive as the socket wrenches. Since the file in my nail clipper was too thick to get into the gap, I settled for the abrasive nature of my thumbnail.
I put the “cleaned and ready” spark plug back, and, with hope and trepidation, I pulled the starter cord — repeatedly. On the plus side, my left arm was getting some good exercise. On the negative side, the snowblower did not start. And since I am left-handed, the discrepancy between arm strengths was amplified.
The next morning, I woke to an accumulation of snow that had to be addressed. In the past, with no pressing need to clear the snow, I had relied on repeatedly driving over it to flatten the snow and clearing small areas down to the pavement to let the physics of the sun melt it.
But with a mahjong gathering planned for the afternoon, I had to get it cleared.
One more try
Before applying my shovel and broom to the driveway, like “The rest [who] clung to the hope which springs eternal in the human breast,” as Ernest Lawrence Thayer wrote in “Casey at the Bat,” I headed for the garage in the hope that my snowblower might start after a night of rest. But no.
What could I do? I got all choked up and — no, that’s a different song. So it was back to the driveway and my time-tested method for clearing the driveway — by hand, with a shovel.
Shovel a path down the middle of the driveway. And then, with a smooth back-and-forth motion, clear one side and then the other. Remembering that I am now about 35 years older than when I developed the method, I slowed my smooth pace and got it done.
The last time that I had the snowblower repaired, the staff’s advice was, “Labor to repair would exceed value of unit.” As a longtime Yankee (not Yankee fan), I find it difficult to throw out a defective device and replace it.
Cases in point
For example, our younger daughter and her family lived with us while they remodeled their house. Her husband has not recovered from my insistence that our toaster just needed some attention and repair to work properly. I still have the special screwdriver for that purpose in its original packing; however, both he and my wife gave me toasters (the same model) for Christmas, so with great reluctance, the old one made its way to the landfill. (He was also shocked at how long I ate a properly refrigerated lasagna. I want to say that it was not germane to this discussion, but it probably is.)
So, I stopped at Vanderhoof Hardware to discuss a new snowblower. Scott sent me home with a can of TruFuel and directions on how to use it.
If it doesn’t work, I will pay attention to the weather and pray for global warming. Failing that, I will bite the bullet and buy a new one… or borrow my son’s.
