Keep pushing

Nothing helped. I replaced the air filter. The spark plug. Fresh gas. A neighbor, likely feeling sorry for me one day as I worked on it in the backyard, gave me their electric mower they no longer used.

It was nice to have a mower that worked. My neighbors are terrific, generous folks. But one small problem. This mower sounded like a jet preparing for takeoff as it roared to life. Maybe a dragster revving its engine at the starting line. I thought electric mowers were designed to be quiet, but this one was really, really loud. I mean, I felt a guilty mowing the lawn and creating a public disturbance. Turned the joy of mowing the lawn into a hustle to get done before the noise police were called in.

What to do?

Buy a new gas mower? Keep tinkering with the old one?

Then, I saw another neighbor using a push mower.

And I remembered my childhood.

We had an enormous lawn, the size of a Little League baseball infield. And for years, my brothers and I only had an old push mower to carry out the weekly maintenance our father required. It was an old, red mower with black handles that was indestructible. It never broke down, despite our best efforts each summer. My brothers and I hated it and complained endlessly about it. As I recall, my father, to shut us up, finally bought a gas mower and it wasn’t that long before my brother, adjusting the wheels while it was going, managed to slip his hand into the spinning blades. I still remember being in the living room, hearing someone screaming, and going to the front door just as my brother burst in holding a bloody hand. Looked worst than it was. His hand and fingers survived. He was back mowing soon, lesson learned. Despite the setback, the gas mower was part of our family to stay.

Some five decades later, a push mower returned to my life.

I went to the Salvation Army and found one for $45. Solid. Sharp. Light. Perfect.

I drove home, pulled it out of the Fit, and began walking and running back and fourth in a diagonal pattern. It was wonderful. Little noise. Good exercise. No need to drive to get gas. No electric cords to plug in. Just a clean, crisp, whirling sound of the blades clipping along, grass flying behind them, powered by muscle and sweat.

People passing by seemed to marvel that there was still someone in America who used a push mower, like they had turned on a street that was stuck in the 70s. They nodded and smiled their approval in my direction. I think they called family and friends and told them to get down here and see this old guy using a push mower.

They might have wondered which would give out first.

I can’t say for sure.

But I do know, I plan to keep pushing.

•••

Bill Buley is assistant managing editor of The Press. He can be reached at (208) 651-8643.