The Saga Continues

 Subtitle : What a Wonderful Day

In my last post I mentioned Murray my old dinosaur lawn mower. Well, here is the update on her condition.

Late afternoon of the very bad day turned good, my loving husband came home from work to two broken lawnmowers and a very happy wife. Like I said in my last post it had been a very bad day but God had given me a reason to celebrate and so my day turned into a good one.

And even though our two recliners in the living room looked so inviting we decided by the looks of our overgrown yard of a park that maybe we should try to get a lawnmower fixed. We decided to concentrate on Inny since she was the newer of the two but even after replacing a fuse and checking the battery and the cellanoid(I think that is what my husband called it) Inny would not budge from her bed in the shed. My husband figured she needed a 30 amp fuse that had blown. And since no store was open to get one we decided our only option was to look at old Murray. So gas can and airtank in hand we trekked back to the junk pile to check on the old dinosaur of a lawnmower.

There are some things you need to know about Murray first. Like I said in my last post Murray was a reborn mower, but (tongue in cheek) with parts that weren’t there before. One of those was a shut off valve for the gas line, since Murray had this habit of leaking all of the gas out of her tank if she sat too long. So, as my husband told me three or four or maybe twenty times or so, I needed to shut off the gas when I parked Murray,  but in all my despair of not getting it to start, I failed to do that. As we lifted the cover off of Murray we saw gas running like an open faucet out of everywhere! My husband can be a very patient man at times and this was one of those times.

“You forgot to shut off the gas, but don’t worry we can fix this.” he says as he proceeded to shut the gas off.  I also forgot to tell him earlier; when I had called him at work in despair;  that some little piece of wire had fallen off somewhere in the vicinity of the motor when I had tried to start it.

“And I even saved it!” I say happily, holding up the wire to show him.  The look on his face was hard to explain but he kept his patience.

“Okay this is another problem, but we can fix this.” he repeats as he takes his hat off and scratches his head. I think he was trying to reassure me, and maybe himself that Murray would run again. He looks at the wire and looks at the motor and suddenly says,  “This wire goes to the choke. We need to take it apart, air cleaner and all and check the carburetor to see if the float is working because there is still alot of gas pouring out of this thing. Why don’t you get me a pair of pliers out of the garage?”

I gladly went to do that since I had no idea what in the world he was talking about. When it comes to cars and trucks and small engines I have no idea how they work. I can tell you how to sew a buttonhole in a shirt or how to replace zippers in jeans, or what type of fabric to use for what type of sewing job; but don’t ask me how an engine works. It is all goobly gosh to me. By the time I got back he had the thing amajig apart and was trying to start it again.

“I hope the engine didn’t fill up with gas.” he mutters.  I wonder why that is so important as I watch him pull out the a long piece of wire called the oil dipstick and smell it.  Suddenly he hands it to me. “Do you smell gas?” he asks. Well, if anyone knows me well enough they know that I and gas and oil and especially all kinds of stinky smelling fluids that come out of a vehicle do not get along well at all. I get dizzy and a headache and my stomach rolls at any of those smells.  ( Funny that I married a man that loves to tinker with all kinds of gas engines and loves cars and trucks; sometimes more than me. And I have a son that has followed in his father’s footsteps. But they have been very good at respecting my condition as far as bringing it into the house.) And now my husband is asking me to see if I can smell gas in the oil.

“What the hey,  I can do this! It’s not like I have to touch it or anything.”  I say to myself. I wave the dipstick under my nose. I smell oil, but no gas. I sway a bit from the dizziness that follows but I take a deep breath and I proudly tell my hubby.  “I don’t smell any gas , just oil.”

He sighs in relief. “Okay that is good.” He says for the third time. “We can fix this!”

My husband tells me to get on the lawnmower and try to start it while he tinkers with the carburetor. That I can do. I know how to start and run the thing, for pete’s sake. The only problem is that my foot is right in the path of the carburetor opening. And when I push on the clutch and try to start the dinosaur, it decides to spew all of it’s contents in the form of gasoline onto my sneaker, sock and foot!

My husband jumps back of course. “I didn’t expect that to happen!” he laughs. He laughs? I jump off the lawnmower and pull my sneaker off gagging. But now my sock is soaked and my hand is covered in gas. I rub my hand in the dirt as my head begins to hurt. Okay I tell myself, you really need to get past this reaction to stinky car fluids, so I bravely let my sneaker and sock dry out as I watch my husband continue to work on this odious piece of a junk pile that has suddenly decided to eject it’s bodily fluids all over me! In my earlier years I would have ran to the house and scrubbed everything  off a million times but at the mature age of 57 (hehe) I figure I am too old to be acting like a child. Although I really wanted to run to the house and scrub my foot and hand a million times I bravely stood my ground thinking, “What the hey. It’ll dry and I am too dang tired to walk all the way to the house and back.”

My husband knowing that I am putting on a very brave front does not ask me to help him start Murray again.But he does ask me to hand him tools. Which I can do. I know what a  3/8 socket is and a crescent wrench. I can even retrieve needle nose pliers. I have helped my hubby clean his garage so many times that I can tell you he has an enormous amount of sockets that he will probably never use but he keeps them just in case he loses one.  Of course that’s why he acquired so many sockets in the first place because of the notorious 3/8 socket that can never be found. He has been known to buy a whole new set because of the missing 3/8 inch socket.  And truthfully he has lost more than his share in the junk pile; which if we decided to take the time to look we would find a whole herd of 3/8 inch socket minions hiding and giggling under an old engine and planning a socket revolution.

I digress. This day I do find the 3/8 inch socket. And proudly bring it to him in an ahhhhhhh! moment.  The moment lasts only for a moment. “I guess I don’t need the 3/8 socket after all.” he says. “It’s metric. I need the 10 mm.”

Duhduhduhduhduhduh!!! Like a scene in a bad scary movie I freeze in horror. The 10 mm socket is the bane of my existence. It is worse than the 3/8 socket. Maybe because it’s metric. I don’t know!  I do know that I have searched for hours on end for a 10 millimeter socket for my husband more than once and like it’s notorious american counterpart it evades me like a sketchy leprechaun with gold at the end of the rainbow. It will never be found!! If you searched for the 10 mm sockets in the junkpile it would be worse than minions it would be like a battalion of evil war mongers,evilly evading you, intent on metric revenge.

“Wait I have one here.” My husband proudly holds up the 10 mm socket and I breath in relief. I have been saved from socket search hell. I have been given a pardon!

Well, thanks to my husband the Murray was revived that day. And after about three times of mowing through the thick grass and losing the belt on the mower, my husband who kindly laid in the  thick grass and the dog doo which our friendly dogs decided to leave as a gift in the yard, got the belt on tight enough for me and Murray to mow in slow mo turtle speed and get our yard of a park mowed. Barely. It was dark by the time the Old Murray and I got done. But we got ‘er done. And after putting her away and waddling cowboy legs style to the house, I had to admit that Murray saved the day once again. Albeit a long, long day.

As we  later sat eating our DQ blizzards at Dairy Queen; which we decided that we had earned for the night; my husband laughingly commented. “You know I thought after the gas spewed all over your sneaker, I really thought that you’d be trekking into the house full speed. But you didn’t. I am proud of you sweetie!”

I laughed thinking of all the comebacks  that I could have spouted.  ‘Sometimes you gotta do what you gotta do’ and ‘patience is a virtue’, all came to mind. But I held my tongue. “Thanks!” I said as I dipped into the delicious turtle pecan blizzard, ignoring the grease under my fingernails and the faint gas smell on my hand.  I sighed happily. And I think to myself – “What a wonderful day!”

bw murray


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