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April 8, 2007

The Off Season: Man and his mower: A love story

By Mike Lunsford

As uneasy as it makes me feel, I have to admit that I’ve just recently begun to betray a relationship that dates back 20 years. I first met her two decades ago in the aisle of a local lawnmower dealership. I can remember it like it was yesterday; she was sleek, attractive, trendy, and purred like a kitten. Besides, my wife approved…

Before you get into this story much further, I want you know that I’m talking about my lawn tractor. I’ve had it 20 years this month, and I’m a little anxious about finally giving her up for something new. A man develops a special bond with his lawnmower over the years; at least I did. I’ve resisted the temptation of test driving new models for years, but recently suspected that if there was lawnmower life-support, my old tractor would have been hooked up to a beeping monitor a few years ago. I could tell last fall that its innards were more willing than able to keep up with the demands I placed on it, so I began, albeit with a guilty conscience, to bring glossy sales brochures home, to ask friends about the particulars of their mowers, and to occasionally sit on (no, I didn’t make put-put noises) display models in home improvement stores.

I’m somewhat of a lawn-mowing fanatic, but despite what my kids think, I have never used a tape measure to determine on what day I mow the lawn. I just enjoy seeing the grass neatly clipped; I feel my yard proves to people that I’m a reasonably neat person myself, that I take pride in what I own. I have no secret desire to be a greens keeper at a golf course, although I would love to mow the Red Sox logo onto the grass at Fenway Park someday. I’ve been known to mow my lawn in midsummer when it’s as crunchy and brown as a sugar cookie. I think the lines of a mowed yard give my life some organization, some symmetry, some semblance of control.

Over the years, my mower became a matter of pride for me. I often bragged that I managed to keep my tractor running while friends and neighbors bought new ones after theirs wore out. It has its original tires, has never needed an overhaul, and is only on its second set of blades. I believe that with proper maintenance, a man should be able to keep his machine going for years. I have been the model of mower upkeep: the master of mulch, the scraper of mower decks, the changer of oil, the guru of the grease gun. Yes, I even used to wax it every fall.

I come from a long line of frugal mowers. My uncle, a truck mechanic, rebuilt the engine of his old Cub Cadet a half-dozen times before he finally retired it to the scrap heap. My grandfather never had a riding mower at all; he bought his push mower at a dime store, and through diligent plug maintenance, filter replacement, and faithfully refusing to mow wet grass, he kept it roaring for years. My first mower as a homeowner was secondhand; my father-in-law once broke it down in my garage and kept it rolling a few more years. OK, we were all cheap.

A good buddy of mine has been after me for years to buy a zero-turn mower. He has one that can mow a yard the size of a small South American country in a few hours. It moves at warp speed and has an engine capable of powering a pickup truck; I think it came with attachments for char-broiling steaks and making ice, too. It was his mower that often came to mind while I sat in the broiling sun of an August day watching moles dig tunnels at speeds that exceeded my old tractor’s top end. And, like a dolt, I have actually increased the size of my yard in recent years. “If mowing is so much work,” my daughter says, “why do you keep making your yard bigger every year?”

But last fall, that handwriting was clearly on the wall; my mower’s deck began to rust away, and I fought belts, and balky steering, and my seat (the tractor’s) was just worn out. It wasn’t a midlife crisis that drove me to seek another mower; I think the thing simply earned a little down time under a blue tarp in my barn, that’s all. I finally broke down and bought a new one.

In 1987, Jim Bakker publicly confessed his sins, Fred Astaire died, Oliver North took the Fifth, and the Dow dropped more than 500 points in a single day. It wasn’t that great of a year, except that my son was born, and I bought my shiny new red mower with its spring-loaded seat, easy-lifting hood and nifty hydrostatic drive. I still can’t believe it’s lasted so long.

Anyway, this summer, in between rounds on my new mower, I’m going to get my old tractor out, weld a little scrap over her see-through deck, apply a nice bit of duct tape to patch the seat, plump her tires, and mow bits and pieces of my yard for old times’ sake. My son, who has become somewhat of a lawn-mowing obsessive-compulsive himself, will occasionally use it on his grandpa’s yard. I hope I don’t have to remind him to keep her oil and filters as clean as the day I brought her home. We may even slap a little paint on her bare spots and fix her headlights, because I truly believe that creaky old clipper still has a few yards left to mow.

True love does last forever.

Mike Lunsford can be reached at hickory913@ aol.com, or by regular mail c/o the Tribune-Star, PO Box 149, Terre Haute, IN 47808.

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