An excerpt from the non-fictional tales of Snow Saga.
Standing in at four-foot tall, with a blade width of 21 inches, and an exceptionally light weight, the orange handled shovel could push snow better than any other shovel I had. But today he met his match. Plowing a rather light load, the blade caught underneath an icy shelf and just… just… cracked. The fatal fracture is near where the handle attaches to the blade.
The driveway was almost clear too. I finished with another, narrower shovel, but of course it took longer than it could have. What can you say about a shovel that did its job without complaint, that lifted loads way above its capacity, that moved more snow with a single swipe than any of its peers? Its life was a relatively short one, but this shovel did more than its share.
This shovel was a nameless workhorse. A trusted tool that came out whenever shallow snow needed plowing. It will be missed. For service above and beyond the call of duty, I salute you, dear orange-handled shovel. A prince among cleared porches, a valiant defender of blacktop, and a remover of the ceaseless snow — go now, to Shovelhalla, and feast upon white flakes forever.