The Unkindest Cut

What better way to start a blog about suburban life than to talk about my lawnmower?

It’s a Snapper, vintage 1986, the year we bought our first home in Glen Ridge. The machine is simplicity personified. Keep it filled with gas, drain the oil once a year (a sloppy procedure), clean the air-filter (a sloppier procedure), get the blade sharpened now and then, and you’re off.
 
Although it is tempting to call it Snappy or Clipper or Big Red, I never have given the machine a name. Perhaps that’s a mistake. In recent years, the old fella has gotten cranky. The slightest resistance from a wet lawn or a clump of tall grass and the Snapper sputters, mutters, and dies. In such cases, I let my machine sit a minute and calm itself. Then I begin yanking the starter cord. Then I yank it again. And again. When the machine finally coughs back to life it lets off a thick plume of dark smoke that lofts embarrassingly over the fence into the neighbor’s yard. Consider it my ample contribution to global warming.
 
I made a promise to myself several years ago that I would keep cutting our lawn as long as the Snapper kept running. Now that promise is coming back to haunt. I really like cutting the lawn. There’s something zen-like and calming about it. I’m not ready to quit. Can’t imagine a stranger running his industrial strength blades over my personal greensward.
 
But it appears the Snapper is ready to toss in the towel. As the machine broke down, I broke down, and had it professionally tuned and tweaked, but to no avail. I have options: A comparable new machine at $500-plus, or a new motor in the old fella for about $300.
 
The decision will wait. Winter is setting in. Time to crank up the snow thrower.

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