Like the farmer of yore who refused to get his first tractor, I, too, had refused to acquiesce to modern equipment. I liked knowing that my labor produced what we needed: more wood for our fireplace, a trim lawn to enhance our gardens, candles and containers of water for when we lost power.
This year, with all the fallen trees waiting for harvest, and with a little of that reluctance still clinging, I purchased my first chain saw. You’ve probably seen me with my trusty saw, manually cutting wood outside in all kinds of weather. I convinced myself initially it was to exercise my arm, physical therapy for the shattered elbow I sustained a few years ago when I slipped on the icy stoop while hauling in logs. This year I decided to join the 21st century.
No one really trains you on the dos and don’ts of its use. For all her doom-and-gloom trepidation, I’m sure my wife imagined me walking into the house cradling an arm instead of wood. I’m surprised she didn’t suggest a suit of armor and found it strange that she only insisted on goggles. I mean — I do wear glasses, and after the first time, I left the cumbersome facial gear in the car trunk never to be worn again. For me, the problem with the chain saw is starting the contraption. After a brief lesson at the store on how to gas it, oil it, and what to pull, move and shift to start it, it seemed easy enough. Trying it at home, no go. I put it down, went inside and read the manual. Tried various manners of firing it up. Nope. I predicted this would happen – that elbow, and machines which seem to know enough not to start when I need to use them. I settled on Plan B. I ask friends Vern or Calvin to come by and start it up. Of course this entails swallowing my pride, but my time on this planet has forced me to recognize the need for machinery to humble me.
The generator was purchased under the duress of another set of circumstances: a heavy unseasonal Halloween snow fall that left us without power and flooded the cellar. It came with the inevitable manual. I started with the chapter on trouble shooting. Why bother with instructions? Let’s get to the real deal. My generator is not a trusted old friend. It has been obstinate at the worst of times. I have it on a wagon to roll it into place, and of course it’s rolled off –as if to ask — aren’t you due for a hernia? Another time the rope broke, beyond simple repair, when I tried to start it. This last time, or straw, was when it was all set, freshly fueled, and starting with absolutely no problem the day before the storm, and when we lost power – nope, nada, don’t think so. I am grateful, at least, that during the throes of rain, wind, and snow storms, no one can hear my choice words for this contraption.
When we retired our first lawn mower, it didn’t take a forest of felled tree trunks or a hurricane to convince me of the necessity of purchasing a new one. It only took one trip around forty gardens and two acres with a push mower. Now I‘m on my third riding lawn mower. Naturally, there is one thing they have all done – refused to start. I always have them prepped for the cutting season. They start fine for Walt, but as soon as his truck disappears, the mower will pull its stunt. I have learned to be patient — give it a couple of minutes, pet it, call it sweet names. It cranks, attempts to start, then, “click”. At this point, our relationship resembles that of the father and the furnace in “A Christmas Story”. I don’t bother troubling myself any longer. I simply use jumper cables. I have someone shut off the car engine after the mower starts because I will not stop it until I’m done with the yard. Forget my thirst, or changing into pants rather than shorts to protect myself from chopped poison ivy, leave the sandwich I planned to eat, leave the ball cap the tree branches knocked off to find later, or the shirt I took off to become fertilizer or an unsightly mess. A word of warning: I don’t ever interfere with the lawn mower’s forward movement, so watch out.
I have accepted my lot with machines. I always expect the worse and they don’t disappoint me. If machines have karma, I am the recipient. Someone in my family must have done something drastic to a machine for which I’m still paying the price. I surrender to the punishment – just make it swift and painless. Neighbors needn’t wonder when they see me in the driveway with a snow shovel instead of a snow blower, no matter the depth. I’m not too crazy about the job, especially when it’s layered with ice, heavy with water, or when the wind, or a snow plow, fill in what I just finished shoveling. Yet I’m reluctant to rely on the alternative. I can only imagine what might happen – snow too dense to blow, hood aimed in the wrong direction, blower jammed – I’m not sacrificing my digits for a quick fix. And of course the perennial problem — do I really need to frustrate myself with another machine that won’t start? Nope. When I get to the point where I can’t shovel myself out, I’ll hire someone to do it for me.
So no one needs to scratch their heads any longer when they see me with a shovel instead of a snow blower, a rake instead of a leaf blower, and clippers and scythes instead of weed-whackers. No thank you. In the same way we rely on cow manure instead of tidy bags of fertilizer, natural rather than bagged mulch, a wood stove instead of a furnace – we’ll continue to count on nature and elbow grease, on what we can rely on and trust. So if anyone asks – as I age — why do you shovel, rake, clip? I’ll say what my wife says when people ask why she walks everywhere – “because I can.”
Juan Arriola