It was a remarkable day when Mike Hamblyn pulled the starter cord on the rest of his life.
So, as a married man in my 40s, conditioned by my childhood, I still mowed my lawn with a manual mower.
One Saturday morning, I gazed out the window and moodily told my wife I would employ a schoolboy to mow the lawn. I was too old to push a mower around.
"Why not just buy a motor mower?'' she asked.
The idea hit me like a thunderbolt. So simple! So sensible!
"I'll do it!'' I said, and went in search of a hardware store.
The one I found had a dozen mowers on display. The wrinkled proprietor looked at me sceptically.
"What sort do you want?'' he asked.
"One that goes,'' I joked.
He didn't blink an eye: this was serious business.
"Ya got a hilly section or a flat one?'' he asked.
"It matters?'' I inquired.
"Two-strokes can handle being tilted,'' he said. "Four-strokes can't. Buggers their lubrication system.''
"Well, our section's flat,'' I said. "But on three levels,'' I added.
"Four-stroke,'' he said. "You'll need some oil, too.''
"Got some at home,'' I said confidently, determined not to be stampeded into spending an extra cent.
"For your car, right?'' he asked.
I nodded.
"Won't work. Wrong sort for an air-cooled engine,'' he said, pointing to the mower he'd picked out for me.
"What's wrong with that one?'' I asked, pointing to one at random.
"Two-stroke,'' he said, shaking his head. "Too fiddly,'' he added, not saying out loud, "for you''. "And it's hard to get the oil-petrol mix right, hard to start, noisy, environmentally unsound ...''
"Then why sell them?'' I asked.
"Because some sections tilt more than 10 degrees.''
"Get one with an alloy deck,'' said my wife, who had returned from the gardening section.
"What's wrong with a steel deck?'' I asked.
"They rust out,'' said Cheryl, who'd been reading up in Consumer magazine.
The proprietor looked at her with new respect.
Together, they chose me a shiny new mower, bright green, four-stroke, with a plastic catcher. Along with a jerry-can for petrol, oil, safety glasses, gloves, earmuffs, the last three items insisted upon by Cheryl.
We got home and finally, mower oiled up and laden with petrol, I pressed its primer button five times and hauled on the starter cord. The little engine roared into life. It blew blue smoke like Puff the Magic Dragon. I breathed in the petrol fumes and gazed with wonder at the little machine at my feet, that strained like a hunting dog at the leash.
My wife was saying something. I let go of the mower and lifted an earmuff.
"Shouldn't you read the instruction manual first?'' she shouted.
"Nah!'' I replied. "She's cool.''
Just then, the mower roared away on me. Down the hill it fled, cutting grass, flowers, shrubs, even some grass, on the way.
"My baby!'' I cried, chasing it like the pram in the Odessa Steps sequence in Battleship Potemkin.
Puff had come to rest, upside down, in the potato patch. Tenderly, I turned him over.
"Oh my baby,'' I said. "Are you all right?''
No answer. I pulled on the starter cord. In reply, he sang his one note song: "Brahhhaaaa!''.
Off we went. Mowing down whole armies of green grass. I finished, an hour later, a general who'd done battle, dazed from the noise, drunk on the burnt exhaust fumes, triumphant!
I have cut the lawn many times, since then, but December 10, 1998, will always be important to me. And to Puff.
Mike Hamblyn is a Dunedin writer and historian.
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