On being
a farm wifeJ^^^jrL
-And other
hazards
Joyce Hupp
Exists there a machine, any
where, without a streak of malice
toward females?
Odds are that such a thing might
be found somewhere. But I’ve yet
to cross its path. Or is it just my
own technological ignorance that
sends signals to mechanical
marvels to go berserk at a mere
touch?
This summer, it’s the lawn
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mower,
Heavy-duty, riding-mowers
have been standard equipment for
the backyard expanse here on the
farm almost since the time we
moved in. We’ve put a lot of miles
on, those riders and I, keeping up
with the national obsession for
cropped, green lawn.
Actually, it’s generally more of
a continuing battle against inva-
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sion by lambsquarters, pigweed
and the toughest crabgrass east of
the Ohio state line. Most of the
lawn lays low and naturally damp,
growing thick, quick and green,
even while other lawns nearby
cringe beneath brittle brown
blades.
So, our lawn mowers earn their
keep. But they never miss a chance
to protest to the one who most fre
quently steers them into briar-and
bramble battle.
Blessed is the mower which
turns over the first time as I shove
the gas feed to the max and choke
down to the precise spot at which
the clattering motor runs the most
evenly.
We roar across the side lawn,
leaving a neatly clipped swath
behind us, and push ahead the vari
able speed thingamajig.
All is well for at least 20 feet.
Then the mower slowly glides to a
halt, motor still throbbing and
blades biting viciously at grass
already lopped to a life-threatening
EAST EARL, PA 17519
low.
In defiance to the sudden temper
tantrum of third gear, I switch
down to second. No second. No
first, either. And the clutch what
chamacallit clutches only with
great reluctance.
But rejoice! we still run in
reverse.
Still, the prospect of mowing, in
reverse, a quarter-acre of angled,
chopped-up, tree-, walk-, and
building-interrupted lawn has
about as much appeal as playing in
a hornet’s nest
" Fortunately the farmer is nearby
moving hay into the bam. To my
lament, he murmurs something
about a clutch belt, sprawls in the
grass to adjust some doohickey in
the mower’s belly, and the clutch
clutches once more.
But the blades only slice farther
down into the lawn’s roots and no
gear takes hold. Yanking the vari
able thingamajig, he whips it back
and forth, until at the “race” speed,
it grabs hold. We charge into gear
with only a hint of whiplash.
At least mowing in “race” is bet
ter than mowing in reverse.
Three race circles around the
lawn later, a faint but familiar sput
tering emanates from somewhere
under the fiberglass hood. Experi
ence says this has nothing to do
with the thmgamajig, the whatcha-
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ihcaster
macallit or the doohickey.
A mowing or two previous, I
corralled the 6-foot family baby to
rescue me from mower desertion,
after the sputter began to smoke.
He jiggled a few wires, furrowed
his brow over the battery and actu
ally considered my hesitant query
about whether it needed water or if
the cables might be loose.
Then it ran fine. After a male
had practiced some sort of
mechanical witchcraft over the
cursed motorized mower.
This time, the farmer himself
invoked a few of the same incanta
tions, stuck a needle-nosed oil can
into a few strategic spots, shrugged
his shoulders and mowed a couple
of rounds with a mower running
like a dream. Still at “race” speed.
By finishing in second gear
“race,” I managed to finish just
ahead of the mower curse, and
only a faint and occasional
threatening sputter.
There are a good three months
of mowing left in the season. This
particular mechanized motor and I
must find some sort of understand
ing or we will revert to a lawn of
wildflowers and thistle.
Either that, or some day I may
be sorely tempted to practice a new
version of mower witchcraft
with a piece of two-by-four.
iy, July 25, 19&B5