Mr. Fix-it

I need a new lawnmower.

This, of course, is not an earth-shaking development unless your lawn is beginning to resemble the plains of the Serengeti.

Mine? Well, let's put it this way -- I ventured into the backyard this weekend and nearly mistook our golden retriever for a prowling lion. After taking a second look to confirm the shaggy beast was canine rather than feline, I maneuvered past a group of grazing gazelles and headed for the garage.

Pulling out our twelve-year-old Craftsman mower, I berated the mute machine for quitting on me the month before.

"After all we've been through," I said with more than a hint of disappointment.

Actually, the engine still ran, but the "self-propelled" mechanics had suddenly stopped "propelling," turning the formerly easy-to-push cutting machine into a block of heavy metal that would have trouble moving down an Olympic ski jump.

And, of course, I'd walk naked through town before I'd drag the immobile monster across our large, hilly yard.

Still, with the cutting season nearly over, the prospect of sinking a wad of cash into a new mower thrilled me about as much as a jury-duty notice.

"Whatcha doing, Dad?"

My younger son had joined me in the garage.

"I'm about to take the old mower apart to see if I can fix it."

"No, really, what are you doing?"

"What's that supposed to mean? You don't think your old man can fix things?"

He didn't even hesitate.

"Remember when you tried to put my new bike together?"

"Yeah, so?"

"So you turned it into a unicycle!"

"Did it roll, Mr. Smartypants?"

"Not really."

"Oh. Well, that's because it was defective."

"Actually, that's the same word used by the man at the bike store when Mom had him fix it. Except I don't think he was talking about the bike."

"Speaking of Mom, isn't she calling your name right now?"

"I don't hear anything."

"Yep. You'd better go see what she wants."

After he had disappeared, I unscrewed the plastic cover that protected the self-propelling apparatus, then stared hard at the gears and belts and suspenders. It all appeared to be in working order.

I started the engine, shifted the thing into drive.

A little arm seemed to release, a belt began to turn, then so did the gears. Still, the wheels held firm, like the derrieres of my children when seated in front of a video game.

I turned it off, then pulled on this and pushed on that. Satisfied with my efforts, I started the mower once again but, alas, no improvement.

A half-hour later, I had a badly-scraped knuckle, a cut on my thumb and a sore foot (from a well-placed kick), but the lawnmower wasn't budging.

Fortunately, my other foot was spared by my wife's call for lunch.

With my batteries recharged, I returned to the garage and, by day's end, my overgrown lawn was neat and trim.

However, if you find yourself in my hometown this week and you happen to spot a naked guy walking along the sidewalk, please look away.

Copyright 2003 Marc L. Prey
All rights reserved.