I watched him struggle with the sea
I was nine-tenths of the way through shoveling my mother's driveway before it occurred to me that the flat-bladed gardening implement which I had been using to rowel up the frozen underlayer of slush from which the shovel just skidded off—it reminded me of a whaler's cutting spade—was conceivably some kind of hoe. I cannot tell if this means I will never have to settle my debts with Poseidon or if I have just incurred Demeter's eternal disappointment.

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I feel like the various gods must have some kind of way to pass out-of-season homage and debts back and forth, the way libraries trade copying and copyright fees. So you should be fine no matter which kind of tool it is.
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These 18th-century tools are very much shorter than hoes, and (cruelly, succinctly) hafted with whalebone.
Nine