The fire starts but one of the mowers won’t. The 36” Snapper walk-behind is a beast once it gets going, but it turns out, also a beast to get going. Turns out it hates cold mornings. It hates mild mornings.
If that was the only problem keeping the truck from pulling out.
The rider has a flat. A 60” front deck John Deere. Sucks up leaves like nobody’s business. A necessity today as the clouds part slightly and the sun brightens up the fog bank. Sure we own a compressor, which of course is at my brother’s house, trying to solve a pressure tank problem on his water system.
And the chainsaw is missing. The big Stihl. A tree is down across a fence and nothing else will do. I get on the phone.
“Scott? Do you have my saw?”
“Oh. Yeah.”
I’ve taken to charging my brother-in-law for tool rental, now that he has his own business. He grumbles about it to his sister, complaining that I’m taking out my personal life on him. I’m not. How many times have I asked the guy to let me know if he’s taking a tool? A hundred? Probably more. He’s a lovable mutt, but has much to learn about business.
“I need it,” I say.
“Yeah, okay. When?”
“Now would be good.”
I’ll need a new chain, he tells me. Someone seems to have been cutting too much dirt. Some day I’ll tell you the story about the dog who snuck off with my new truck while I was out of town, and how when the dog apparently looked away, the truck mysteriously began to roll, picking up speed until it slammed into another car. I happened to be working 100 miles away when the state police called, searching for answers.
“Yes, that’s my truck,” I told the officers. “By the way, is there a lovable mutt anywhere in the vicinity?”
“Yes. Yes there is.”
“You might try talking to him. His name is Scott.”
