The Cottage Next Door Issue 5
Doing some real damage By
Charles R. Ratliff
So,
I flunked small engine repair in high school. Who cares?
I
was reminded of this when I tried to mow my three lawns, two meander lands, and
side yard with my father-in-law’s push mower. Mom and Dad recently purchased a
Craftsman Hydro-dynamic, self-propelled two horsepower mower that, if not
carefully monitored will go from zero to 600 feet a minute in about two
seconds. As I removed the mower from the shed we all use I noticed the grass
ejection port protector had broken off. That probably happened the last time
someone used the mower and I should have guessed just how my afternoon was
going to go.
When
it comes to power tools, I can really do some damage.
I
took the mower out and decided to mow my father-in-law’s yard first. In order
to start a Craftsman push mower, an operator, such as myself, faced with such a
daunting task and a sun that was sinking lower on the horizon, must first grip
both the blade engage bar and transmission throttle bar at the same time. This
is a safety feature built in by some yahoo at Sears.
As
I readied myself, I had an overwhelming urge to yell, “Contact!” Shaking off
the urge, I gripped both, and yanked on the pull cord. The engine roared to
life.
As
soon as I pushed the mower into the grass, grass clippings sprayed out the
side, creating a cloud of chlorophyll through which I had to walk. It must have
had something to do with the missing side ejection port. So, I pushed harder and
thought, ‘Hey, the faster I mow, then the
less grass clippings would touch my exposed arms and legs!’ I didn’t take
into account the wind. As soon as I turned against the wind, grass began to
land in places where grass shouldn’t be.
I
pushed faster, and danced behind the mower, grabbing the seat of my pants,
which helped to shake out the grass clippings. Doggedly determined in finishing
the task, I continued to mow.
About
eight minutes later, I pushed the mower through the gate into my yard,
continuously glancing at my watch, timing how fast I could get the job done. I mowed
along the edge of the fence, then beneath the tree, carefully avoiding my
wife’s newly planted Rose-of-Sharons. I then mowed beneath the wooden swing,
figuring that I didn’t have to move it because it swings back and forth. I pushed the mower, which pushed the swing,
and I smiled at my ingenuity.
As
I pushed the mower beneath the swing, the mower made this dreadful,
nerve-grating, crunching sound from the top of the mower. As soon as I heard
that sound I did what I was trained to do: I kept mowing. Then, the mower quit.
‘Uh-oh!’ I thought. I tried to restart it, but I noticed that I had broken the
yank cord piece that helped start the mower. Man, Dad is just going to love this! I thought.
Then,
I attempted to sneak the mower back to my father-in-law’s shed before anyone
noticed I had broken it. In order to do that
I had to push it right by my father-in-law’s window to the front sitting room,
where everyone was sitting. My wife was sitting right there by the window,
looking out. She noticed me.
“What
happened to the mower?” she asked. It would be later that she would tell me
that they all heard the same noise I did.
“Uh,
nothing,” I replied. “I just thought it would be nice to mow with my mower
instead.”
She
cocked her head to the side. “Did you break it?”
Deciding
to confess, I replied, "Hey, what can I say? I flunked small engine
repair.”
While
Dad and Biz set about fixing the gas-powered mower, I pulled out my electric
one. I have an orange Black and Decker electric mower that requires a 100-foot
umbilical cord plugged to a working power outlet in order to operate. I first
purchased this mower when we moved to Plymouth after moving from a state where
I never had to mow a yard to a state
where I had to mow my lawn every stinkin’
day from April to October – twice a day when it rained.
Did
I mention I now have three yards to
mow, instead of one? Go figure.
For
that, I have a riding tractor mower, but I have tendency to damage that one on
a regular basis.
Like
the other day when I was mowing. No sooner had I gotten started than I topped
over a fallen tree branch hidden in the deep grass, which stopped the blades
and cut my motor.
I
dismounted, and cleared the wood from the mowing path. I then weaved in and out
between the trees and was coming around the far side when I heard that annoying
sound. You know, the crunching, squealing, metal tearing on metal sound. My
instinct took over; I killed the engine. I reset the blade clutch handle to
off, and re-started the engine. I put the mower into reverse . . .
.
. . And promptly tore the metal blade shield from beneath my mower. I had
caught a metal piece of rebar sticking up from the ground, which pulled the
blade shield out and lifted the mower deck free of the ground. I again killed
the engine.
Setting
it free of the impediment, I lifted my riding mower by the side of the deck and
tried to push the shield back into place. It fell off in my hands, much to my
chagrin. I dropped the mower and looked around to see if anyone saw me break my
own mower.
I
drove the poor thing back to the garage as quickly as I could manage.
I
tried to think what lesson in that small engine repair class would cover this
new problem.
See,
taking the class in the first place was my dad’s idea, who thought it would be
good if us boys learned a little something about how to take care of power
equipment, like mowers, chain saws, and cars.
When
I brought my report card home with a C-minus, my father, a mechanic and
appliance repairman, acted as though I had failed the class. He didn’t tell me
that exactly on the day I showed him my report card; he told me that the
afternoon some weeks later when I asked him for help to start my car after I
spent an hour tuning it up and the dang thing still wouldn’t start.
He
came outside and I showed him what I had done so far. After a quick examination
and listening to me try to start the car. He wrinkled his nose at me as if I
had passed gas and the smell was too polite to talk about. Shaking his head, he
proceeded to help me fix my car.
Within
minutes, the car was purring like a kitten. It was right after the car started
when he pointed out, “Getting a C-minus in small engine repair is like taking
your cousin to the school dance. It doesn’t really count.” I couldn’t argue with
him on that point.
Just
yesterday my brother-in-law asked, “Hey, Charles, does the gas-powered weed
eater work?”
“Um,
yeah, I think so,” I replied, jumping up from the table and heading out the
door.
I
better go re-string it before he finds and tries to start it.
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