The snow thrower was dead, that much is certain. That the snow thrower was dead is vitally important to the story I’m about to tell. The Christmas Crippler had stung New England, dumping twenty inches of spirit deadening snow on everything. The weight of the new snow hung especially heavy on Michaemorser Scrooge.

“Humbug,” he said pulling the cord over and over, knowing no life would come to the wretched machine, but pulling nonetheless. In an effort to save a nickel he had used last years lawn mower gas, too cheap to support the economy and those so desperately in need by buying some fresh gas. He gave one more might tug to no avail, kicked the lifeless beast and headed toward the garage. As the door lowered, a vision appeared.

“Michaelmorserscroooge!” the haunting apparition wailed as the snow continued to rise.

Scrooge jumped back, shocked to see the ghost of his past reflected in the garage door glass.

“What do you want,” snapped Scrooge at himself.

“To warn yoooo,” said the ghost, his voice nearly lost in the freezing wind, “to tell you to quit being such a cheapskate and spend some moneeey…”

Scrooge dismissed the ghost. “Humbug,” he said, and retreated to the warmth of the house, immediately going to the thermostat and turning the heat down.

“Oh, Michaelmorser,”said Mrs. Scrooge, wrapped in a tattered quilt, three generations old. “It’s Christmastime,  can’t we keep it on 60 degrees, just this once?”

“Are we the Rockefellers?” asked Scrooge, pulling an old blanket around his shoulders.

“No, we’re the Morse’s,” said the Mrs. ,and turned the heat up.

Michaelmorser headed back into the cold, and felt the comfort of the freezing wind chill his cheap old bones.  He kicked the snowthrower, pulled the cord once again, listened to it sputter and die and picked up a shovel.

He bent to his task, a blinding light filled his vision as he lifted the first shovelful of snow. He fell onto his back, writhing in pain, arms and legs flailing. Slowly the pain subsided, and he stood. He threw the shovel into the blizzard, and hung his head in despair.

A tiny snowflake caught his eye, and he followed it until it came to rest, right where he fell. There, the outline of a snow angel lie, still, serene and quiet. Michaelmorser looked at the angel and hope filled his empty soul.

“They did it in one hour!” he exclaimed to the falling snow. A boy walked by, carrying a shovel.

“Boy,” said Scrooge. “What day is this?”

“Why, it’s Saturday,” said the boy.

“A remarkable boy, an intelligent boy,” said Michaelmorser.

“Do you know the gas can, the one in your garage?”

“The one as big as me?”

“A delightful boy! Yes, that one, get it and bring it to me and I’ll give you a quarter. Do it now and I’ll give you half a dollar!”

The boy disappeared, into his home to play x-box.

Michaelmorser Scrooge spent the next hour cleaning his gas line to his snowthrower, and putting some fresh gasoline into it.

It started on the first pull.

Old Scrooge kept his promise, and never used old fuel again.

And a Merry Christmas to you all!

“