A sympathetic neighbor offers the use of his mower. Mine refuses to crank, even after dozens of pulls on the recoil starter. I figure that the lawn needs one last trim (before the falling leaves end the cutting season). Won’t it run at least o n e m o r e t i m e? And then, I won’t have to worry about it ’till next year! Unfortunately, it doesn’t work that way. It has died, nary a cough or a sputter, and the reality is that my yard will look unkempt for the rest of the year. Can’t have that. Don’t want to suffer the indignity by borrowing either. I pull like mad on the rope handle hope fading, cajoling: “Come’on baby! Kick!” Choke on or off, she’s a no-go.

Not willing to be beaten but irritated to have to do now what I was willing to put off until spring, I roll the beast back into the garage. A cap full of raw gas down the carburetor throat allows the engine to run for a few seconds so I deduce that there is inadequate fuel delivery. It’s a carburetor problem. I remove it with a 3/8 socket, first sliding off the fuel hose clamp from the tank and draining the old gas into a container. The place now reeks with fumes and it’s on my clothes and skin. The kids pop into the garage to see what ‘Dad’s doin’ and remark that they ‘love the smell of gas’ Must be genetic because neither one of them has ever turned a wrench. Nor do they offer to get their finger nails dirty with grease…

I pull the carburetor from the manifold and disassemble as much as possible. Removing the jets and float bowl I explore and learn Ah-HAH! that an intake orifice had clogged with debris. Let’s hope that I am able to reconstruct the delicate parts (and not have any left over) because I think that I’ve got it solved. Soon the machine will be filling the neighborhood with the droning noise of success and glorious triumph.