Inanimate objects sometimes have lives of their own.

A poem I read, when just a tyke,
My Dad said he’d read it too,
About a machine we’d all like,
Had no weak parts, all were true .

It was a carriage, horse drawn,
Known as the “One Hoss Shay,”
And it lasted for years, on and on,
Nothing broke, forever and a day

It was like a road Scraper I made,
Oh, some twenty-five years ago,
To drag with my truck like a blade,
Keep my driveway free of snow.

We had some big snows in that while,
And my Scraper was always on call.
We’d race to the end (a third of a mile),
Slinging a great spray wide and tall.

If the snow came down really deep,
We’d make a run every hour or so.
The roadway free and clear we’d keep,
So other vehicles could come and go.

The Scraper, like the “One Hoss Shay,”
Never needed to replace a part.
No piece developed wobble or play,
While many broke on wagon and cart.

The Scraper was great ‘til winter ‘09,
When the snow fell three feet deep.
We worked our magic just fine,
‘Til in the wee hours, without a peep,

All parts wore out — at stroke of one.
The right rail skidded into the ditch,
Left one bounced and came undone,
Concrete weights away did pitch,

Nailed down gussets split in two,
Splintered and shredded, trashed,
They broke apart like faulty glue
Chains aloose, my bumper bashed,

The Scraper, folks — it wasn’t there,
Disintegrated, busted — gone to hell,
Like the “One Hoss Shay,” — everywhere.
And none for salvage, truth to tell.

The open road? Not a prayer!
Disappearing ‘neath snowfall large,
So I headed for bed, left it there,
The wonders of Nature in charge.

And such a snow job — everywhere and deep,
Didn’t melt ‘til March — thought it’d be May.
Then I found a piece I wanted to keep.
From the Scraper? More likely the shay.

© 2010 R. Leland Waldrip