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.

There’s a rather rough looking gathering sharing the Sheraton Hotel and Conference Center with us. Recovering alcoholics and narcotics abusers. Not all of them fit the ponytailed, goateed, tattooed mold. They wear plastic ID badges like chains around their necks. I observe that spouses wear them too. Are they there with them for moral support, or were they partners in crime? Shoot. Some have their whole fam damily with them! (can’t be a child’s idea of a fun weekend) I acknowledge my fortune in not having been reared with that kind of element.

Last night I was atop this ladder jostling with the ceiling flush mounted lamp wishing that I had 3 arms. Analyzing from this perspective thinking that they had to have designed this operation as a one man job. Right? The fixture’s straps string between rafters so I hoist the contraption with the one hand and wield the hammer with the other. I reared back with the hammer and gave it a whack — there was this greenish blue flash and then total darkness. The vibration traveled down the stud and poof! The one and only bare bulb illuminating the place was toast. (remind me to get a pen light for my pocket protector) I inched my way down the wobbling ladder and then down the stairs for the door. Black as pitch.

The condenser coils on this refrig accumulate dust, lint, pet hair, fuzz, you name it. An internet search scores the tool that you need. Work this specialized bottlebrush in-and-out and between the coils — being careful not to insert the tool head clear back into the fan blades which may be running. Doh!

Note the vacuum cleaner hose extension pictured to the left side of the image: This will help to pick up the flying dust and debris that exit the airflow output side of the refer. The running fan may fill your kitchen with particulate but the vacuum will trap most. Your appliance will operate shorter cycles and save energy.

Hound dawg and I are jogging the greenway past the house where lives ZAK. Rude and obnoxious , he charges the backyard fence growling and barking like he would like to duke-it-out. Why should today be unlike any other day and we ignore the beast except there is a twist! My ear tells me that the barking is getting louder and louder and surprise — he’s on the wrong side of the wall! Here he comes with barred teeth. We slow to a walk (to continue running away would telegraph weakness and only encourage) in fact we nearly stop and a few harsh commands (like BACKOFF and GIT!) flatten his resolve. G O H O M E!

Seldom recognized, but much appreciated, is the back-up filtration in your vacumn. This is actually a last line of defense — a screen — which protects the motor and fan from debris ingestion. It loads up with lint just like the trap in your clothes dryer. It pops out and needs to be cleaned occasionally. Doing so will extend the life of the motor and restore the your machine to peak efficiency!

The rambunctious rascals are burning energy in the halls. They are here for a soccer tournament and since they are probably cold, but unwilling to cover-up the light weight uniforms that they proudly wear, they must run up and down to make heat. Much of this exercise is wasted as noise. Here they go again…

Ben ordered the tacos especial along with a glass of lemonade, and I the tres enchiladas. We munched away the chips and salsa at the Cantine Flas and soon our waiter reappeared and gestured at Ben’s empty glass to offer another. There wasn’t much English spoken but Ben accepted and the waiter (curiously) asked a second time (for verification and understanding, I suppose). The check came and turns out that the refill was processed as a second order and the grand total for lemonade — six (6) bucks(!). Maybe should have said something.

Capture the flag. S’man and his armed buddies entered the wooded area. The object is to shoot and not get shot. His team has 15 minutes to waste the enemy with their Markers. Not a sissy laser tag game, these rapid fire weapons use CO2 or Nitrogen to zing a paintball at XX fps and a strike will sting like a hornet. The boys may not be as cunning or experienced as the older guys on the field but they make much smaller targets as they slink through the trees hunched over, locked and loaded. They scan and seek watching and listening. Some opponents are wearing camouflage. They all have helmets and face shields. I would require a full body padded suit myself but a little fear and pain goes nicely with the hunter-killer instinct. Go get ’em men!

We are camped at the holiday inn, Memphis. Also here: a manly bunch — attending a greens keeper conference where I’m sure they will hash out ideal sprayer calibrations, sprinkler cycles, cutting heights and other secrets of the trade. Perfect location. Next door to the hotel, a .::Platinum Plus::. (with its magenta neon signage they fondly nicknamed the Purple _____! and it’s bikini nite). Bummer! I will miss the show. We move on under cover of bright sunshine.