June 29, 2009 11:38 pm
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Now I know why people keep goats. I wouldn’t mind having a small herd of them myself to keep in the back yard — you know, that chunk of green that resembles a pasture more than a lawn.
The rain is getting the blame for my inattention to the back yard, which is probably inviting the wrath of Mother Nature. If lightning strikes and I end up with a crater surrounding my house, I’ll know I’ve ticked her off.
Although our monsoon season seems to have stopped, things aren’t getting much better. The daily rains that flooded sidewalks and kept the weeds continually watered at least kept temperatures down. These 90-something days, another whim of Mom Nature, are great for tanning and lousy for lawn-tending.
Some folks dote on the heat. Not me. I like a steady 70 degrees, and if I can’t find it outside, I’ll hide in the house in front of the super-duper fan that cools my whole first floor.
In my run from the car’s air conditioned interior to the coolness of my living room, I pay scant attention to the green grass of home. But when I let the dog out on Friday afternoon and had to use a scythe to find her again, I decided it really was time for some yard work.
I put on my old clothes and oldest shoes and headed out the backdoor, determined to trim down the mess of grass, weeds and vines that populate the confined space of my fenced back yard. Off to the garage I went, hauling out the mower and pulling it to the driveway.
I pulled with all my might on the starter rope and got nothing but a whir. Sighing, I tipped the mower on its side and sure enough, enough grass was packed underneath there to support a third world herd of yaks for a year.
A few minutes of screwdriver therapy, and the blade moved freely again. With the mower back in an upright position, I pushed the little red button three times to prime the engine and yanked the rope again.
This whir was slightly louder.
I checked that little metal cap thing that fits on the end of the spark plug and it was OK. I pushed some little toggle bar back and forth a couple of times, too. I don’t know what it’s for, but I vaguely remember dear departed Hubby doing that sometimes.
No matter what I tried, the mower wouldn’t start, so I gave up in disgust. When my daughter appeared a short time later, I shared my tale of mower woe.
Smart girl that she is, she went back to the garage, got the gas can and filled the mower’s tank. Naturally, it started right up.
“Stuff from the red can goes in the red mower and it goes roar,” she said in the most unscientific explanation I’ve ever heard.
Confident that things would be OK now, I waited until it cooled off and tried again.
Once more, nothing but a whir. Muttering rude things about the mower’s parentage, I yanked again and again until the engine roared to life with a mighty puff of oily smoke.
And, yes, I huffed and puffed and mowed until the meadow was tamed into a respectable lawn. And in the process, I found two plastic cups, a mini soccer ball and the weed whacker I swore someone stole.
CATHIE SHAFFER can be reached at (606) 473-9851.
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