The Big Ugly
Art: Greg Newbold
Anyone who’s lived in the mountains has a story to tell. I’m not talking about the convoluted tale of how you ended up living at high altitude or how you survived the worst winter of your life just two weeks after getting here, but rather the mountain story you’re reluctant to share because it’s just too crazy to be believed.
If age has taught me anything, however, it’s that “crazy” is a relative term. Over the years, friends have cautiously shared their mountain stories around warm candlelit dinner tables while snow swirled outside. It could be my imagination, but I swear the storm rages a little angrier during these confessionals, as if the mountain gets steamed when her secrets are publicly discussed. Even though several bottles of wine are usually involved when these stories surface, they don’t sound crazy to me. And here’s why.
Back in 1992, my husband George and I had lived on Lowell Avenue in Old Town for only a few years. In those days, Lowell was little more than a gravelly blacktop fire road dotted with just a few homes. Several lots on either side and below us were open fields, and in fact, we had a clear view of Park Avenue from our back deck (we used to watch the Fourth of July and Miner’s Day parades from there).
Even though our house was immaculate when we bought it, we still felt the need to make a few changes. Luckily, George’s dad (who was also named George) was the handiest branch on the family tree when it came to building things, a talent his son unfortunately did not inherit. But that was okay, because we loved having my in-laws visit from California, and helping with a remodel gave them reason to come often.
Plus, George’s parents loved the snow. Before San Diego, they had lived in Detroit for decades. And now that they had a son living in a frigid climate, George’s dad took pride in teaching his son winter survival techniques, which, of course, included the proper way to shovel snow. George was amused by this, since he thought snow removal was about as challenging as eating a cheese puff. And to make matters worse, George insisted on using a high tech shovel called “The Big Ugly.” Living up to its name, The Big Ugly had a Z-shaped handle (instead of the usual straight one) with the idea being you’d get better leverage. George’s dad thought this was insanely stupid and was convinced that The Big Ugly actually gave you back problems. He told his son repeatedly, “If you don’t get yourself a decent snow shovel, then I will.” So with this philosophical difference in common, George and his dad would spend hours taking turns clearing the driveway and back deck with The Big Ugly, each steadfastly trying to convince the other why this odd shovel would or wouldn’t work. These were probably some of the best times they had together.
Then one Friday evening in February 1994, while George was in flight on his way home from a San Diego business trip, I got a call from George’s brother. Without warning, George’s dad had dropped dead on a dance floor with his wife by his side. Doctors later deemed it respiratory failure and said that he never even knew what hit him. He had been a lifelong smoker who had given up cigarettes in recent years, but by then, it was probably too late. He was 72.
When George got home that night, I told him about his dad. He looked at me stoically, like I was lying. “I just had dinner with my parents last night,” he whispered. I remained silent because I didn’t know what to say. He put on his coat, went out back and aggressively attacked the snow with The Big Ugly. Everyone deals with grief in his or her own way, so I wasn’t put off when George ignored me as I tried to talk to him while he shoveled snow. His emotional distance made it quite clear that he wanted to be left alone. I finally gave up and went back inside. But I couldn’t bring myself to let him face his pain single-handedly, so I opened a second story window and helplessly watched over him as the scraping shovel drowned out his faint sobs.
Early the next morning, George flew back to San Diego, still disconnected from anything but his own relentless sorrow. I stayed behind to tie up loose ends, with the plan to fly out later in the week. During the night, snow dumped again, and by the time George left for the airport, the drifts in our yard looked like a new mountain range. Feeling alone and useless, I went out back to clear the deck. As I pulled The Big Ugly from its resting place, I saw that the plastic shovel blade had a huge crack where it attached to the handle. With the first scoop of snow, the shovel blade broke off, leaving a hopeless hunk of crooked metal in my hands. I couldn’t believe it. The Big Ugly was dead.
Frustrated beyond belief, I hurled the shovel handle into the empty field behind me. It spun through the air like a demented boomerang and landed in eight feet of snow, never to be seen again. I started to cry, and for the next 10 minutes, I stomped any remaining life out of that plastic shovel blade until it was an unrecognizable pile of rubble. Breathing hard, I felt both satisfaction and embarrassment at venting on a shovel. I quickly looked around to make sure there were no witnesses and was suddenly very melancholy when I realized how alone I really was.
I gathered up the shovel shards and carried them through the house to the garbage cans on the front porch. As I deposited the debris into the trash, it started to snow again. For some reason, I felt very defeated knowing I’d have to get to Albertsons before dark to buy a new snow shovel.
But then something weird happened. As I entered the house, an object fleetingly caught my eye. When I suddenly realized what it was, I froze. I slowly backed out the front door, and my intellect confirmed what I thought I had seen. There, leaning against the wall just to the left of the front door, was a brand new straight-handled snow shovel with a big gold bow around it. No card, no note, just a shovel that had never been used.
I stared at the thing dumbfounded, briskly burning up brain cells trying to remember anything about a shovel being delivered. When I finally came up empty, thinking gave way to an unexplained wave of comfort, but my common sense still wouldn’t let go. “Why would someone just give us a new shovel?” I thought. And then I shivered, not because I was outside without a coat, but because in my heart I knew the answer. My eyes welled up and I tentatively poked the shovel to make sure it was real.
Immediately I got on the phone to everyone I knew in Utah and California, but no one laid claim to the shovel. I even had George’s mom check their credit card statement to see if George’s dad had ordered it. He hadn’t (and George’s mom knew nothing about it). After three hours of futile detective work, I went back to the front porch. The shovel was still there. I picked it up, and without removing the bow, used it to clear the driveway. With every scoop I felt a little better.
To this day we don’t know where that shovel came from. I do know it didn’t materialize from nothing, that a human being brought it to us, but I don’t know what compelled him or her to do so. We hadn’t lived in Park City that long, so we didn’t know a lot of people. Our house was in the middle of nowhere, and our closest neighbor wasn’t within earshot. And I know no one saw me stomp that shovel to death because I looked around afterward to make sure of it. Besides, they couldn’t have put a shovel on the porch that fast.
I’ve given up trying to figure it out. I think the quickest way to destroy the positive effects of a good mystery is to try to solve it. After you’ve lived at high altitude for a while, you eventually come to realize that not everything up here can be explained, nor should it be. If you can’t accept that, then you need to go back to sea level. Personally, I’m comforted in knowing that this mountain I call home is the keeper of some of my best-kept, big, ugly secrets.
Local writer and filmmaker Stacy Dymalski has lived in Park City for 20 years, where she and her husband George are raising two sons.
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