David Heiller
Buying a lawnmower is no small event in our family. The questions rage: “Should
we buy new or used? Off-brand or
name brand? Three horse or three-and-a-half horse? Twenty inch cut, or 22 inch cut?”
And of course the main question: “How much does it cost?”
My wife and I anguished over the issue for the past month. We knew the hand-me-down
mower in the garage would not make another summer. Cindy wanted to go with a
new mower. She figures we have a big lawn, and will probably always have a big
lawn, so a new mower would be a wise investment. She also figures that if we
still had the money spent on used mowers and repairs over the past three years, we could have a very good new mower.
I can’t argue that point. We’ve had four used mowers—three bought, one given—since 1981. Each
of those mowers was serviced at least once during the summer. That’s between
$150 and $200 in mowers, for three summers of sporadic cutting and abusive
language.
But since I was in charge of researching the new purchase, I once again stuck my neck out
and bought a used mower. I kept
thinking, “One of these times, I’m going to get a gem, one that was used by a
little old lady with a small lawn who only cut the grass on Sunday.”
The model I bought was an off-brand, didn’t even have a name. Its
carriage was painted bright green, with a clean, white, three-and-a-half horse
motor. It looked in good shape, and had been given the once-over by the dealer. The cost: $42.20, with a trade in.
When I bought home, my nearly two-year-old son crawled onto the engine,
as if to ride it around. “Mo-mower, mo-mower, he said. He moved behind it,
reached up for the handle, and tried to push it. It wouldn’t budge.
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| The lawn mower in residence with the lawn mower of the moment. |
Cindy was not quite as excited. “Oh, you bought a used mower,” she
said. “I thought we had agreed to buy a new mower.”
“Did we?” I asked. My mind is able to block things out quite nicely when
called to. “Oh yeah, you’re right. But this one looks so nice. I gave it a test
cutting. And it’s been serviced. The guy even ground the valves for me.” I don’t
know what the valve grinding entails, but it impressed me, so I tried it on Cindy. She returned to the kitchen, looking
unimpressed.
The next night the “new” used mower had its debut, its first major league
start. Halfway around the apple tree, after five minutes of mowing, something clanked and whizzed into the weeds. I
stopped the mower. The air filter had blown off. All I could find was a twisted circle of tin. I picked it
up: It was engine hot, and burned my
fingers.
I glanced toward the house, feeling like Ron Davis after giving up one of
those game-losing home runs. Here came the manager. Cindy approached the mower and me as I knelt by its side, trying not to look at the air filter hole.
“It doesn’t sound very
good,” she said. “I wouldn’t write home about that mower if I
were you.” She was showing great self-control, just like Billy Gardner must
have in those ninth-inning disasters. The words “I told you so” were
nearly bursting out from every pore.
“Let’s give it a chance,” I said in a compassionate voice. “I’m not even a quarter done.”
“Yeah, I know,” she said, and turned back to the dugout.
I resumed cutting. The mower worked fine for the next half hour. Then it started stalling in
the tall grass. Soon it was having
trouble with the regular stuff, so that I was taking baby steps to let the
blade keep up with the grass.
Finally, with only a 10 by 20 foot patch left, it quit altogether, and I knew it wouldn’t start
again. I tried five or six times.
Not even close to a spark.
I wheeled it into the garage, and parked it. It’s still sitting there,
looking very clean and nice, waiting for one more shot at the lawn, one more
shot at the big leagues. Then it’s
either here to stay, or it’s back to the minors, and me with it.
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