Monday, January 06, 2014

Bad postcard of the week: Life, death, skiing and broken snow blowers.

We've been dealing with a lot of snow this Christmas break. 

So much snow that I’ve been busy shoveling instead of posting bad postcard stories.

Note that I say “shoveling” instead of saying “powering up the snow blower.”

Remember at the very end of last winter, when it seemed like something got caught in the snow blower and there was that nasty burning smell, but it was OK because we had all spring, summer and fall to fix it?

You don’t remember? Neither did I – until I got the thing gassed up and fired up and made a swoop up and down the driveway and wondered why no snow was joyfully getting sucked up and flying out.

Reality set in that snow blower blades do not fix themselves.

Luckily, I have very, very understanding and kind neighbors who do have functioning snow blowers and have taken pity on me until I can find a small engine repair shop.

And I need to get it fixed, because after Snowpocalpyse 2014 this week, I suspect the reasonably priced model I saw at Lowe’s after Christmas is long gone.

I do have a nice shovel, and we have been reacquainted.

The abundant snowfall  also has cancelled school for at least the first two days this week, which means Christmas break has been extended by a couple days. That means that I can keep playing Christmas music for at least one more day.

It also means I can use a Christmas postcard for this week’s entry.

We did several things in the snow this weekend. Mostly shovel, and drag the former Christmas tree through the woods to its new home.

One thing we did not do was roll around like Hans and Dieter here.

We’re not sure what happened. The back reveals only that it was printed in Germany.

We see Dieter laying there covered in snow with his poles nowhere to be found. We see Hans standing over him, with his gear on his shoulders.

A couple potential scenarios.

First, maybe Dieter was on the receiving end of a pre-Wide World of Sports “agony of defeat” moment. Hans is a member of the junior ski patrol sent to either apply first aid or retrieve the body. Dieter apparently survived, though Hans doesn't seem all that thrilled.

Or, maybe Dieter is trying to make snow angels, and Hans disgustedly reminds him that you first need to take off the skis. Dieter’s snow angels just don’t look good.

Or, this is what passed for après-ski fun in the days before fancy ski lodges with big stone fireplaces and sweater-clad ski bunnies sipping hot cocoa while eagerly listening to epic – if not slightly exaggerated -- tales of conquering the double black diamond run. Or, in my case, the epic – and completely true – tale of wiping out trying to climb off the ski lift, laying sprawled at the base as the operator tries not to roll his eyes as he brings the whole thing to a halt and helps me recover my jettisoned skis and far-flung poles.

Or, that thing above Dieter and to the right of Hans in the background that looks kinda like a polar bear is indeed a hungry snow bruin who realizes that lunch is soon to be served as Dieter is lying down and Hans can’t run too quickly in the snow.

We just don’t know.

No comments: