Doin’ the Hanky Panky
While I was out of town for nearly two weeks, my acres of lawn morphed into a Jumanji jungle. So, I oiled up Sparky and we set out on safari—until I ran her over a log. It was crouched in the tall grass. The attack caused serious damage to the mower deck. Poor Sparky. I apologized profusely and limped her back to the barn.
I had to get Hank out of retirement. But Hank had a flat tire. And a dead battery. And zero oil. My neighbor helped me with the flat. (My compromised air compressor went to the Goodwill during my “packing to move” frenzy.) I transplanted Sparky’s battery to bring Hank to life. I changed his fuel filter, oil filter, air filter, and put nice clean oil in his tank. And voila! We were ready to roll!
But Hank is old. I don’t really know how lawn tractors age, compared to humans. Based on the general rule about dogs aging seven years to a human’s one, I’ve determined that Tootsie the Wonder Dog is now roughly the same age I am, and will soon be older than I.
But my Hank? He’s technically younger than Tootsie yet acts older than I do. He struggles to go up a hill. In fact, if I don’t stop and let him rest a few seconds halfway up an incline, he wants to shut down all together. And sometimes when he shuts down, he won’t start for hours.
So, I accept this. He’s old. I’m old. I can relate. And I tell him so. And we just go slow.
I sing to him: “My baby does the Hanky Panky…”
I make up words— “I got him mowing right up the hill, The way he moves gives me such a thrill…”
He keeps going.
I sing louder. If I didn’t live out in the country, I’d probably be arrested for disturbing the peace. Or being out of my mind.
“He’s my hero and he knows the drill…”
We near the top of the incline.
“He might be old but he’s got it still!”
We coast down backward. And now I’m shouting, “My baby does the Hanky Panky. Yeeeoooow!”
My voice is tired. I get quiet. The engine dies.
I dismount. Open the hood. Disconnect and reconnect the key starter—a trick that sometimes brings Hank back to life. Yes! We resume mowing.
I serenade my tractor, loudly— until he runs out of gas. By then we’ve all but completed our turf-trimming campaign. I thank Hank abundantly and tell him he’s my main man!
Now, some folks would say that my singing has nothing to do with Hank’s cooperation. That chatting with a tractor might indicate a loose screw—in me, not in the tractor. But all this melodic vocalization keeps me from getting agitated, so when something goes wrong, I don’t swear at the mower. I don’t kick a tire or bang on the steering wheel. Companionably complimenting my safari taxi, and improvising lyrics to sing his praises lifts my spirits. And gives me patience to monitor his coughs and sputters, thereby extending the length of our ride together.
Even if you don’t sing and shout, try some small act of appreciation for your tools. It’s bound to make a rough job go more smoothly.
As for Sparky—I’m taking her apart. (Slowly. I learn as I go.) Major surgery is required. But I’m singing my way through it.