Fringeville #157: So long, Stella. Don't let the door hit ya where the Lord split ya!

So we finally got the big one. And it was pretty much the promised pain in the posterior. I spend the whole day moving snow. The only time I fell was trying to get back to the shed to fetch the snow thrower, a Craftsman, which performed magnificently despite my belief it needs a replacement inline fuel filter.

When I fell, I was fortunate enough to have a snow shovel with me and I eventually used it to help me regain my feet. Without the shovel, no one was finding me until after the spring thaw. My wife would have assumed I had become one of those husbands that goes out for a pack of cigarettes and disappears for 20 years. Well, maybe wings, because I don't smoke. But you get the drift. Every possible pun intended.

So today, I am a mass of pain and I'm loaded up on ibuprofen. I didn't enjoy Stella one bit.

The feeling in this family, however, wasn't unanimous. My daughter created something called "snow ice cream" and it was good. A little grainy, probably from all the toxins it picked up falling through the atmosphere. But is was oddly pleasing to eat the blizzard that ate up most of my day.

One Nimrod family member, however, loved the blizzard:

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