Well…it happened. It happened on a beautiful late summer’s morning, right around Labor Day. I knew that when she finally died it would be on a beautiful late summer’s morning. She loved dry weather and she would have loved that day, had she lived to enjoy it.
We were outside in the back yard by the patio and she…she just wouldn’t start.
I did everything I could for her. I pressed the fuel primer six times…then another, and even another. I pulled that starter rope again and again until my arm ached, and then I pulled with the other arm. I checked her spark plug, even though I knew it had less than 3 hours on it. I did everything I knew to do, but nothing worked. She was too old and too tired to go on. She sat there, still and quiet…her engine cold, totally at rest. I just stood there, numb and angry and sad all at the same time.
She’s not cheap. She’s…easy to purchase.
Time was short, the grass was long and I was empty inside. They tell you to wait a spell, let things settle before jumping in again, but I couldn’t wait. They said I should take my time, look around, don’t rush things, but I couldn’t. I wouldn’t. The void was too deep, my need too great.
The next day I did my shopping on-line and found a 21-inch Craftsman. It has a 158 cc Briggs and Stratton motor. I don’t know what that is in horsepower. Apparently, no one but me cares about horsepower anymore. I was going to drive to Sears but there I was, sitting at my computer, and the next thing I knew I had ordered it. Yes, I ORDERED one! There was no courtship, no real introduction: just a bunch of professionally taken pictures and the typical come-ons. “SMOOTH START!” “DUAL-POINT DECK HEIGHT ADJUSTMENT!” “SPECIAL LABOR DAY SALE PRICE!” And the one that finally swayed me: “FREE SHIPPING!” It all felt so clinical and impersonal.
She came to me by UPS. Dear Lord…UPS!! I didn’t even get to pick her up. Some stranger in a dark brown shirt and matching trousers dumped her at my door in a big cardboard box while I was GONE! I don’t know how long she’d been there.
I pulled her into the garage and put her together. I was nervous, worried I’d do something wrong, but she was accommodating and assembly felt intuitive…natural, even.
I stood there, looking at her. She was spotless, shiny new. No holes in her deck, no rips in her grass catcher. She doesn’t have a throttle control! Now that put me off, let me tell you. I filled her gas tank, put in the oil that came with her (I was impressed) and rolled her into the front yard. I thought about starting in the back yard, but I confess the idea of showing her off appealed to me. I know, I know…don’t judge me.
I followed the directions, which instructed me to press the fuel primer bulb 5 times for the initial starting. Five times: one less than it used to take with… I pushed the memory away and pushed the primer. One, two, three, four, five. I grabbed the handle, depressing the safety bar and pulled the starter rope by its pristine plastic handle…no scrap wood and duct tape here. She started with the first pull and I couldn’t help but smile.
She glided with the grace of a nubile princess on a dance floor. No hiccups, no coughs, and no missteps: pure lawn mower magic, and I was quickly lost in her perfection. I looked to my left at the freshly cut swath and nearly swooned at the extreme evenness, the manicured appearance of my lawn. I glanced behind me at what should have been large clumps of cut grass too heavy to be drawn into the bag… and there were none. I stopped and stared, then studied the short grass behind me, searching for even a solo slice of cut grass and could not find one…not one! My reluctant smile became a big grin. I walked faster and she never noticed, the cut still perfect, the lawn still free of any sign of loose grass clippings.
When I finished the lawn, I checked her oil level. It hadn’t budged! Not one drop! I checked again, and a third time, with the same results. Just for fun, I checked the gasoline and found it nearly full. For the first time in a long, long time, I got an old rag, a towel and some warm water and I washed my mower before putting her away.
That night, I disassembled my old, faithful mower carefully. Handlebars, discharge bag and old, rusted-through deck: oh, what a good mower she had been. I asked my wife what she thought about making her part of our back yard décor…a planter, a bird bath, maybe some kind of fun new swing set accessory for the kids.
The old mower fit perfectly into my big trash bin.
The new mower looks almost out-of-place in that old, rusty shed with the missing doors. Of course, that shed’s served us well, been with us for over 20 years; it came with the house.
Still, though…
Steve Wilhoff 