![]() But dad was an excellent mechanic, so he ordered parts and fixed the Snapper. I got careless a second time, and I bent something more serious on the lawn mower. I got careless once, and Dad needed to replace the blade. I wasn’t to cut the large rocks that grew behind the barn and garage because they ground lawn mower blades like cowpokes chomping chewing tobacco. ![]() My dad pIopped me on his 1960s Snapper Comet and taught me how to start, shift, and stop it. I was eight years old when I started mowing the 2.2 acres that was our yard, a ponderosa compared to the narrow city lot we moved from when I was five. ![]() I thought, “If we buy one of those zero-turn, wide-cut, mountain-goat mowers, I can cut the grass too.” I used to ride my father’s mower like it was a newly-tamed mustang, and I was a free-wheeling cowgirl. I watched with glee, nearly jumping up and down, almost clapping my hands together, wanting to ask if I could take the mower for a spin. And one drove the riding lawn mower - a zero-turn, wide-cut machine that hugged the hills like a sure-footed mountain goat. Because of this, we’ve always figured our yard had to be cut with a push mower, but recently we needed to hire a lawn service. The hill on which the Snapper became my bucking bronco was just to the left of the barn. ![]() We had land on the other side of the white house, the other side of the curved driveway, and behind the barn and white garage. ![]()
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