The Forlorn Mower

Saying goodbye is never easy. Bidding adieu to my lawnmower this morning was particularly poignant.

It was bulk-waste day today in my Montclair neighborhood. Last night, I solemnly wheeled my old Snapper to the curb. I assumed some passerby might snatch it up after dark, but by morning the mower was still there, covered in dew, and listing slightly to the left.

It’s odd that I should realize just now, after 23 years, that I never gave the old Snapper a name. I never even surmised if the mower was a he or a she. It remained an “it” for all its useful life – but a trusted friend, no less. I purchased the Snapper when I bought my first house in Glen Ridge in 1986. It moved with us to Montclair in 1992, crossed into the new millennium, and continued to serve me well -- even as neighbors left and right commissioned professionals to care for their lawns.

Not me. I resolved years ago to keep pushing that Snapper until one of us had lost the will to mow. By last fall, I knew the time was coming near. When it wasn’t stalling out completely, the Snapper was blowing enough smoke to be declared a global-warming disaster area. Myriad carburetor adjustments later, all hope seemed lost. The mower repairman declared it was time for a new motor; I declared it was time to break down and hire someone when spring rolled around.

It was tough at first for me to think of someone else cutting my lawn. It was a job that always appealed to my sense of order and neatness. I looked forward to those slow walks back-and-forth behind my mower the way some must look forward to their morning jogs. But I soon came to appreciate having the work done for me, freeing up my time for other pursuits.

This morning, it became official: Mowing my lawn is someone else’s job now. The Snapper — paint chipped, engine caked in black crud, tires bald — was off to a new home or a landfill, whichever would come first.

As I drove away, the Snapper was still sitting there on the curb, forlorn, unclear of its destiny. Looking in my rearview, I thought I saw a puff of smoke emerge from its rusted muffler. Goodbye old friend. May your blade remain sharp, wherever you go.

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Tags: Montclair | Lawnmower

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