“And ’cause I was a gazillionaire, and I liked doin’ it so much, I cut that grass for free.” – Forrest Gump
Confession: I’m not very handy.
And by “not very handy” I mean, if you were being held captive by a homicidal maniac, and he threatened to kill you unless I took care of some minor repairs around his house, if those minor repairs included anything more than changing out light bulbs, well…what songs would you like sung at your funeral?
It’s a little embarrassing, really. I own a toolbox. It even has tools in it. And I think I could pick a band saw out of a police lineup of assorted shady power tools. But of all the wisdom and knowledge I’ve gained over the years, my lack of know-how around the house is astounding and inexcusable. I’m an Eagle Scout, for crying out loud! Part of this problem I blame on my father-in-law. He’s an electrician by trade. There’s nothing he can’t fix. I think maybe the character of MacGyver was based on him or something. He’s so good with his hands that if anything has come up in the last 15-plus years or so, there was no need to try to mess with things knowing he would be over soon to take care of it. But that’s just an excuse. My lack of handy-man skills is deplorable. And it makes me feel less of a man. The way your Mii character shrinks on Nintendo Wii when you’re not doing so well in the games.
I think this is why I like mowing so much.
I know how to fill the mower with gas, how to prime it, how to start it, and how to operate it.
That’s four times the amount of knowledge I have about any other piece of machinery. Heck, I can even remove the blade and sharpen it. I’m practically a savant.
Ahhh, lawn mower. You’re this non-handy man’s best power tool friend. My only friend. You make me feel more of a man. You make me believe I can accomplish something that is beneficial for the home. I wield you and things look better than they did before, not worse. You even hum a little tune as we plug along. Together, we create lush green spaces where children and animals frolic and play. And the smell of your clippings brings young and old alike to the threshold of warm summer memories. Forget that even young teenagers can run you, or that if you need an oil change my wife has to do it. None of that matters when I’m out on the yard with you, lawn mower.
You know, it’s a shame there’s not an olympic event that combines lawn mower racing and light-bulb changing.
I think I’d have a shot at a medal.