My Life as a Lawnmower
Ever since I was taller than a blade of grass, I've been mowing lawns. As a boy I used to supplement my paper route income with lawn mowing jobs in the neighborhood. To me, the smell of freshly mowed grass is the smell of victory.
My first lawn mowing gigs were performed using a Black & Decker electric mower that was attached to a mile-long extension cord. This machine placed the energy cost squarely in the lap of the homeowner whose lawn I was mowing but included the risk of running over the cord. Although rare, this vocational hazard did present itself in real and shocking ways. The memory of having to wrench my hands from the metal push handle that was carrying 120V after chopping the cord in half is deep seated. The extension cord displayed its wounds in the form of black electrical tape bandages along its entire length.
I happily moved on to gas-powered mowers as time went on, and even more happily moved on to other forms of employment as more time went on. But then after experiencing the vagaries of the corporate cubicle I ventured back out into the garden and worked trimming the lawns of the flora-starved inhabitants of New York City.
As I pushed a mower along the narrow strip of lawn that graced the edge of one of the myriad apartment complexes on the upper west side, I could sense the longing of the men in suits and ties as they passed clutching their briefcases. The intoxicating smell of cut grass mixed with small engine exhaust has a powerful allure. Who would be the next to fall for the romance of the rotary mower?
But making a living as a gardener is a tough row to hoe and it wasn't long before I was back in the saddle of the rolling desk chair with the multiple adjustment knobs that stick out of it like so many pins on a voodoo doll. The grass was growing high around me as I was stuffing greenbacks in my pockets.
I couldn't resist the call of the wild, however, and eventually packed up my tools and left the city. There was a lawn waiting for me somewhere and I was destined to mow it.
When we made the move to Chez Melendy (the endearing name we've given our humble abode/unending renovation project), I welcomed the new opportunity at lawn mowing. I went out in search of a machine and gladly found a $20 special from Bob's Lawn Mower Repair shop. It was, no doubt, a repair job that someone neglected to retrieve and Bob was looking to recover his costs. All I cared was that the "Eager-1" started on the third pull.
Over the next two years I ran the Eager-1 hard. (I hope the swifty who came up with the name 'Eager-1' got a hardy pat on the back and an upgrade in his/her roll around desk chair.) Having only paid $20 for the mower, I barely winced when the blade ground against a protruding rock or stump. I happily ventured into the edge of woods to clear the encroaching weeds without a care.
Oh, I knew the peril of errant mowing. A lawn mower could be destroyed in an instant by a misplaced pass over a protruding piece of New Hampshire granite. (As a boy I rendered one lawn mower useless when I hit a large piece of steel hidden in the grass of Mr. Cushing's yard. The drive shaft was bent to the point where the motor would not even turn.)
And then I pushed the Eager-1 too far. Carelessly venturing into the high weeds last week I sent the machine over a stump that stopped the old blade dead. I restarted the machine with trepidation. It ran but now the whole mower vibrated terribly. Either the blade or the drive shaft was bent and now the rotation included a viscious oscillation.
I forged ahead and finished mowing the yard, my arms shaking in response to the wild vibrations. When I wheeled the Eager-1 into the barn I knew I had a hard decision to make: should I try replacing the blade or should I shop anew...







