Eloquence

Are you mechanically inclined? Well, are you?

Let me explain the reason for the question. We have coined phrases that romanticize our preoccupation with people, places and things. We soften the stark light of reality with the veil of eloquence. We use terms such as euthanasia; ‘he was euthanized to stop the financial bleeding his family was experiencing with him in the terminal care facility.’ Another great term is “insurgent” as in ‘the cowardly terrorist is now called an insurgent so that we don’t offend his beliefs’.

Enough of the tangential diatribe; back to the question, are you mechanically inclined? I don’t want to know if you are predisposed towards the inanimate, I just want to know if you think you are adept with the intended utilization of products of the age of mechanization.

If you are, you may want to reconsider your devil-may-care approach to that beloved piece of labor saving device. Take the snow blower; or snow thrower if you prefer a less suggestive moniker. The unit has few moving parts; an engineering marvel in its simplicity and also in its ability to confound its owner. Here’s hapless Hank, the product of Middle America in his four bedroom suburban home with two car garage, 2.2 kids and 1.5 pets. Hank has decided that he will be working at home today. Overnight sixteen inches of powdery joy (soon to become the object of hate by the masses forced to navigate the treachery bestowed upon them in the aftermath of man’s attempt to overcome the cold, wet white blanketing the nether regions of the continent).

Hank trudges into the garage after a jolt of java and a touch of nourishment (if you consider a dip into the cookie jar and two chocolate covered praline cookies nourishment – we’ll address dietary matters in another story). Clad in the battle armor of the frozen warrior he wrestles the red behemoth from its resting place under a protective blanket upon which the kids have piled a collection of toys, shoes and athletic equipment.

Feeling authoritative Hank decides to dispense with the electric start his wife insisted that he install. Preparing himself Hank moves his arms across his body briskly for ten seconds, stopping to catch his breath while reminding himself that he isn’t getting any younger. Pulling the starter cord the engine whines and groans. Hank presses the fuel primer several times and counts to five before attacking the pull cord. After ten attempts Hank is beginning to perspire. A temper flare produces three short descriptive and unflattering words.

Dragging the machine past his wife’s SUV and over to the electrical outlet he takes the extension cord and plugs it into the electric start connection port. Pushing the “Lazy man’s helper” as Hank dubbed the electric start; the engine sputters to life coughing black smoke. Hank adjusts the choke smoothing out the roughness. The engine’s tone shifts to a throaty roar.

Cranking the impeller drive handle along with the drive motor handle the snow blower jumps before settling into slow forward momentum. As it broaches the blanket of powder covering the top of the driveway snow sprays from the chute. Five minutes into the exercise (oh it’s exercise for couch potato Hank) the impeller grinds and snow refuses to exit the chute. Impatient Hank pushes the machine deeper into the bank before realizing there is a problem. Releasing the drive handle he leans over to inspect the exit chute. Snow sits in the chute in a smooth almost perfect cylindrical shape. Scooping the top portion and tossing it the impeller struggles to push more snow out.

Hank watches helplessly, cursing first the machine’s inventor (long dead but in Hank’s estimation sitting just over his shoulder laughing at Hank’s ineptitude) and then Mother Nature’s twisted humor. Digging into the chute he scoops out more snow as the impeller struggles. As he plunges his hand deeper into the opening the voice of his mother cautioning him against working on a running machine makes a cameo appearance.

The tip of Hank’s glove catches the edge of the impeller blade pulling the glove along as the impeller turns. Hank doesn’t realize there’s a problem until dull pain blossoms in the tips of the fingers of his left hand. By the time Hank releases his grip on the impeller drive handle his hand has been sucked into the ejection chute that is presently filled with his wrist and packed snow.

Two blood curdling screams launch before Hank yells for help. His decision to get an early start on the day, out blowing snow at five thirty ante meridian insures that he’s utterly alone. His wife is tucked snuggly in their bed, the humidifier emitting white noise drowning out all exterior sounds, she won’t hear his shouts.

As pain radiates up his arm and spreads to his neck his back spasms; the awkward position leaning sideways over the machine exacerbating the problem. His blood soaked glove begins to leak essential bodily fluid into the snow packed intake. Fifteen minutes later a neighbor two doors down (this is a suburban neighborhood where the houses are separated by fifty feet of open space and each home’s frontage spans one hundred feet) waves as he starts his snow blower. Hank yells for help but his neighbor is engrossed in his own work.

Two minutes later Hank is slumped over the machine the exposed portions of the motor are hot searing the skin on his face. Hank doesn’t feel the pain; he has lost consciousness and a considerable amount of blood. By the time someone realizes there’s a problem it’s too late. Hank is whisked off to the local hospital, his mangled hand dangling from a lifeless wrist. EMS professionals attempt blood transfusions to ward off the visit to death’s door by the courier sent to collect Hank’s soul.

At the hospital the emergency room doctor pronounces the inevitable. Hank’s wife cries over his lifeless body lamenting how he was never one to listen to her cautions.