On the south side of our house, there is a dirt field. The field is about two acres of open space and, during most of the year, I just ignore it. It requires very little upkeep or maintenance in the summer, fall, or winter.
Every spring, however, after a few months of rain followed by several weeks of pleasant warmth and sunshine, the field is taken over by weeds. Usually by the end of April or middle of May, the weeds have grown to be as tall as I am, and I know it is at last time to fire up the tractor and cut them all down.
For 2019, that time has come.
Mowing the field is not my favorite chore. In fact, I try to avoid the task for as long as possible. This year, I successfully ignored the weeds longer than usual, but I had to admit it was time to get to work when the neighbors began to drop little hints.
First, it was just the gentleman next door, mowing his own fields and waving at me while he did it, as if to say, “See how easy it is? Now, why don’t you try it?”
It escalated a little bit with a few light-hearted comments like, “Weeds are getting a little tall, aren’t they?” “You trying to build a hedge maze for the kids?” Or, “Is your mower broken, or are you just a lazy, inconsiderate jerk?”
Finally, when I got the anonymous note hand-written in blood that said, “Cut down the f***ing weeds or you will never see your dog again,” I knew it was time to mow.
Mowing the field typically takes a little over three hours, so I figured I could do the job on a Saturday morning. Of course, projects around my house never seem to go smoothly, so I cleared my whole day, just in case. Apparently, that was the only thing I did right, all day.
I got up at about eight o’clock and went outside to fire up the tractor. Because I had not used the blue beast in a few months, the first thing I did was check the fuel gauge. Of course, the tank was empty.
I went back into the garage to grab one of the five-gallon portable tanks of diesel that I keep for just this sort of emergency. I picked up the first tank, but it was as empty as the tractor. I grabbed the second and discovered that, while not completely dry, the pint or two of fuel inside was not going to be sufficient to cut down two acres of weeds. I tossed the empty tanks into my truck and drove to the nearest gas station. The nearest gas station, by the way, is still a twenty-minute drive from my house.
When I returned, I fueled up the tractor, then noticed that the front tires were both almost flat. No problem, however. I just fired up the air compressor in the garage. After the first half hour, the compressor had not risen above 5 pounds of pressure. I finally realized that I had left the pressure valve on the bottom of the compressor open. Another half hour after closing the valve, and all tires were returned to their appropriate internal pressure.
It was now almost ten o’clock and I was at last ready to get to work. I placed the key in the ignition and turned it. There was no reaction. Just a soft clicking noise that slowed to a stop, then dead silence. After sitting unused for three months, the tractor’s battery had gone completely dead.
Still not deterred, I retrieved my battery jumper box and attached it to the tractor battery. I again jumped into the driver’s seat of the tractor, placed the key in the ignition, and….
Complete silence.
I rechecked the connections between the jumper box and the battery, but everything seemed properly arranged. A little more investigation revealed that the jumper box itself was also dead. Apparently, if you don’t recharge them every year, they stop working. Who knew?
I dragged the box into the house, plugged it into a wall socket and, a mere hour and twenty minutes later, it was fully charged and ready to be put to work. I returned to the dead tractor, attached the connectors of the jumper box to the battery and tried once more to start the engine. When I turned the key, I got some more of the weird clicking noises, but the motor still refused to start.
It seems in addition to a dead battery the tractor had developed a few other ailments during its three months of inactivity.
The dog’s chances of ever coming home were beginning to look a bit bleak.
In desperation, I began to call tractor repair stores in the area. Most were either closed, did not provide pickup or delivery (I do not own a trailer big enough to carry the tractor), or did not work on my particular model. I was quickly running out of daylight and phone numbers to try.
Then, just as I was starting to wonder what kind of dog I should get to replace the old one, I finally caught my first break of the day. I found a repair shop that I knew had gone out of business the year before, however their website was still up and active. The website advertised that although the business had closed, the owners were still doing mobile servicing and repairs. When I called, I spoke with a man who stated he would be happy to take a look at my tractor.
I asked when he might be available, and he said, “Are you home right now?”
Tim (as I discovered he was named) was at my house thirty minutes later. He looked at my tractor, shook his head, and told me, “Nope. I’m not going to be able to fix it today. I need some parts and I won’t be able to get them until next week.”
Just when I thought I was saved, more bad news. I shook Tim’s hand and thanked him for coming out. He said he would give me a call when the parts were in, and we could schedule a time to service the tractor. Then he asked me, “Do you need the tractor running today?”
I thought that was an odd question. Hadn’t he just told me he couldn’t fix it?
“Um, yeah,” I said. “That’s kinda what I was hoping for, but I understand you can’t do anything until next week.”
He smiled and told me, “I can’t fix it until next week, but I can get it running for you today. Once I get it started, though, you have to leave it running. If you turn it off, I can’t guarantee it will start again.”
I don’t know what he did, but five seconds later, the tractor’s engine roared to life.
It took most of the day, but I finally had a functioning tractor. What had started out as a three-hour project had become a saga of ridiculously epic proportions but, in the end, the damned field did get mowed.
And, oh yeah, the dog came home, too.
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