Honda Endgame II

In the evening, there are low-budget siren song commercials promising all-expenses-paid vacations if only you attend a brief, no-obligation seminar on how to change your life forever. Real estate, gold bullion, fractional jet ownership.

One such ad aired between quarters of a football game, and for reasons unknown to this day—perhaps celestial alignment, perhaps indigestion—this particular commercial gripped my father with the jaws of death. He clung to its promise of wealth beyond imagination as if it had been addressed to him personally, in the language of prophecy. In a flurry, he dialed the number. By the following Tuesday, he was enrolled in a hotel conference room crash course in real estate investing.

Tens of thousands of dollars and two years later, my parents owned nine rental properties. They called it passive income. There was nothing passive about it. It wasn’t just the mold remediation, the police calls, or the tenants with illegal contraband and unpaid rent that made sure the real estate dream never quite materialized. It was the sum of it all. The slow, compounding chaos fueled the quiet marital tension hovering in the house like carbon monoxide.

I first learned to mow the lawn at one of those rental properties on Bellevue Avenue. I had grown weary of scraping banana off the inside of a closet wall (at least, that’s what I was told it was), and longed for the freedom of outdoor chores in the fresh air.

We had already finished weeding for the morning, so the next item on the list, written in Sharpie on the back of a gas bill, was: Mow the Lawn.

Now, I had never mowed before, but the idea enthralled me. The serene white noise. The smell of gasoline. The marks of success so clear: uniform lines, evenly cropped turf. No moral ambiguity.

I was handed a red Honda with sharpened blades. I was shown how to affix the bag, how to adjust the choke, how to raise and lower the deck height, how to summon the spirit of combustion through the sacred dance of choke-pump-pull.

At first, I didn’t understand how fast or aggressively the starter cord must be pulled. It’s not a polite tug. It’s a commitment. You have to mean it.

When I finally got it running, I engaged the drive lever, and with the glee of a novice and the posture of a man clinging to a runaway horse, I was off. I learned quickly: pinecones turn into shrapnel, tree roots are time-thieves, and fences do not negotiate. But I loved it. I was hooked. This was my chore.

For years after, it was mine: the weekly communion with machine and grass. At home, at the rentals—wherever the schedule allowed and the neighbors didn’t complain.

As an adult, I inherited that same red Honda. She lost her drive train somewhere along the way. Her fan now complains loudly during the work.

Lately, I’ve relied more on a classic push reel mower—manual, no combustion, all humility. With a postage stamp-sized yard, it suffices. There’s something penitential about it, in a monastic way. It is quiet. Entirely ineffective against most weeds.

But this year I’m afraid I’ve been too occupied with indoor work to have the opportunity to take charge of the yard maintenance. Therefore, it’s been left to other hands.

But last week, with travel looming and the grass edging toward rebellion, I opened the garage and wheeled out the red Honda. I checked the oil. Topped off the gas.

First pull: nothing.

Second pull: a cough.

Third pull: ignition.

She roared to life with the rage of the elderly who have been underestimated. I smiled. Together, we attacked the overgrowth.

While mowing the lawn, my partner walked over to tell me something. I couldn’t make out what was being said over the roar of the Honda—her fan, already persnickety, had taken to rattling in protest.

I cut the engine, the silence landing heavily over the yard.

I leaned in to hear this urgent message: “Do you want me to help?”

I replied, with what I believed to be perfect clarity and without a shred of ambiguity, “No.”

I then turned back to the mower, resolute, and gave the starter cord one assertive pull—crack.

Something inside gave way.

She would not turn over.

I tried everything: checked the choke, primed the engine, muttered offerings. I pulled the cord again and again until the silence between attempts became unbearable. After a long and futile stretch of troubleshooting—during which my pride quietly packed its things—I had to face the truth:

She was gone.

I stood there a while, my hand still gripping the handle, as if letting go would make it final. Then I wheeled her gently back into the garage.

In an act of forward momentum I began shopping for a replacement. Time to learn about these new electric mowers. The future in lime-green plastic.

As exciting as it was, I already missed the old sounds. The hum. The scent of gasoline. The resistance in the pull cord. I would miss the violence of it all, the way she insisted on being known and reckoned with.

While inspecting one model that claimed to fold itself for storage, my neighbor stopped by the yard. After I recounted the sad tale of my mower’s collapse, this Saint offered to take a look. I wheeled her out like a pallbearer.

Somehow by some magic (and loads of time) he got her running again. I didn’t ask what he did. Some mysteries are better left alone.

But I know this much: she is not long for this world. Her motor is frail. Her drive is long gone. She will not survive another season.

Still, we have a few mows left together. And I will savor them. Every stuttering start. Every line of grass laid flat beneath her blade.