The Outdoors Man
The snow was beautiful that morning. The first heavy snowfall of the season always had its magic, but today, set against the early morning brightening sky, no wind, just flurries still in the air, the carpet of snow exuded peace. The pure whiteness, so lacking of impurities, drained all tension from mind and body. Things that had gone unnoticed before were now in startling contrast: the single dark brown leaf that had survived autumn’s fall now clinging to its branch, sprouting unceremoniously, but with confidence, from the surrounding crystals; the huge pine boughs, formerly just blending into the yard, now dipping with unmatched flexibility under the weight of the night’s precipitation. A scene created to cater to the Robert Frost or Norman Rockwell spirit in us all. Certainly for this Bronx boy, a scene that was nothing short of enchanting.
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None of this is meant to convey a sense that I loved the outdoors in New England winters. I didn’t. In the Bronx, where I was raised, the color and feeling of winter matched that of the sidewalk — grey, hard, and unyielding, with snow turning dark and slushy within moments of its falling. Enjoying winter for its natural beauty? Aside from a solitary tree outside my first floor living room window, natural beauty was nowhere to be found.
That was my view of winter when I moved to the “country,” living in a house with a long driveway, and walkways leading to the front and back doors. All I had for managing significant snowfalls were three shovels, each shaped differently, and all guaranteed to ease my back while moving snow from one spot to another spot nearby. Maybe I was holding the shovels the wrong way, but every time I had to use one, my back seemed to chide me for being such a sucker.
The morning after this particular storm, I was shoveling our walkway when I noticed my next door neighbor, Joe, using his snowblower on his driveway. As I leaned on my shovel, I marveled at how much snow he was moving, just guiding this magnificent, self propelled machine this way and that.
Joe and I had a cordial relationship. We would often greet each other and make small talk about the weather, the Red Sox, or his frequent trips to his condo in Florida, but he was 25 years younger than me and a die-hard Republican, so we didn’t have too much to talk about. Nevertheless, when he saw me leaning breathlessly on my shovel, he invited me to borrow his snowblower. I reminded him that I came from The Bronx, that I had never used a snowblower, never thought about using one, didn’t know how to use one, and in fact was a little nervous about using one. He said “nothin’ to it” and wheeled his snowblower down his driveway, up mine and after a few simple instructions, I was snowblowing.
After I finished, I returned the machine to Joe, and went home determined to buy a snowblower for myself. I started calling all the places that would carry snowblowers, but with the storm having been forecast days before it actually arrived, they were all sold out. Home Depot, the local hardware stores, even Sears. None left. But the last place I tried, a home goods store called Bernie’s, known for its household appliances rather then winter equipment, said yes, they had three left. I promised to be there in 20 minutes.
Bernie’s did indeed have three left, all floor models, ranging from about $700 to $1,400. They were Poulan snowblowers, a brand I had never heard of, but knowing nothing about snowblowers or the companies that made them, I looked at the three machines before me and said the only thing I could think of at the moment: “They look nice.”
Owning a bookshop at the time (code for not earning very much money) I opted for the $700 model, which could be delivered the next day. I was very excited. A snowblower. No more shoveling. I felt myself wishing for the next snowstorm as soon as possible.
The next day, a truck from Bernie’s arrived just when I expected them. The delivery guys were large men, not wearing any coats, but sporting tight, short sleeve tee shirts with the Bernie’s logo: The head of a cartoonish bald man, smiling broadly, above the words “Bernie’s. You’ll find it here.” The men lowered the ramp and wheeled the sparkling, brand new snowblower into my garage..
They were required to demonstrate it for me, especially the plug-in starter. So they primed the carburetor, plugged it in, and pressed the starter.
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It wouldn’t start.
It just went woo woo woo but it wouldn’t catch. They tried everything, including priming it over and over (flooding it, I thought, if it was anything like a car, but I wasn’t about to argue with two big delivery guys wearing muscle tee shirts without jackets in the middle of winter.) In the end, we agreed it was a lemon, and they would return it to the store for repair. I said no, I would be asking for a refund. They shrugged and the larger of the two said, “Whatever.” Then they loaded the machine back into the truck and left.
About two hours later the manager at Bernie’s called and couldn’t have been more apologetic if the delivery guys had run their truck over my feet. He certainly understood my reluctance to keep the $700 model and asked: “Would you take the $1,000 model at no additional cost?”
I didn’t have to think too long. “Sure,” I said. That model was bigger and its directional controls were easier to manage. “When can it be delivered?”
“Tomorrow,” he said. “Same time.”
“I’ll be here,” I said.
The truck again arrived when expected. I was delighted. The same two guys, still in their tees, were wheeling the machine into my garage when the left front wheel came off and they couldn’t figure out how to get it back on. I told them to take it back along with the errant wheel, which they did, cursing mildly under their breath.
I was lamenting the idea of facing the rest of the winter with only my shovels, when the manager called again, begging my forgiveness. “Can we make this right? How about the top model — again no additional cost to you and the Mrs.?” (Yes, he really did say ‘the Mrs.’)
Two different delivery guys, dressed appropriately for winter arrived the next day to deliver the top-of-the- line snowblower, for which I paid half price. The wheel stayed on this time. One of the guys plugged it in and went to start it when I said “Don’t you have to prime it first?”
“Not when you have it plugged in,” he said. “Says so right in the instructions. That’s why those bozos couldn’t start the first one. They flooded it.” (Don’t tell me, a Jewish kid from the Bronx doesn’t know his engines!)
Then he opened the choke (or closed it — I was never sure how that worked), pressed the starter button, and it started right up. He showed me the rest of the bells and whistles this model had, wished us happy holidays, and left me with my new snowblower droning loudly in my garage.
I enjoyed using it the rest of the winter. Out there in the cold, with enough sweaters to keep me warm but not overheated, wearing my LL Bean ankle-high waterproof boots with extra socks, using ear protectors worn over my wool hat with the ear warmers down, and getting the occasional reward of spotting a rainbow in the arc of snow coming from the machine. It invigorated me, took my mind off less pleasant things, and made the warmth of my home and a hot cup of coffee all that much more glorious when I finished
Yes, I enjoyed it, okay? But let’s just keep that secret between you and me. I wouldn’t want anyone to think I was an outdoors man.
