I live in a state of constant
crises. Some I create myself; others are thrust upon me.

My lawn tractor is a menacing example of the latter. It’s a simple machine: you just slap on some sunblock, put on your old hat, fire it up and ride around your lawns, mowing as you go. It’s easy; hundreds of thousands of people do it every week.

Sure, there are some things to watch out for: don’t mow over the water hose, keep an eye on the dogs and don’t go up a steep hill unless you want to flip over backward.

Oh, yes, as far as mine is concerned, don’t try to slip into reverse while mowing or there will be a minor explosion and everything will stop dead.

Mostly, my machine and I have gotten along well and I was looking forward to a leisurely tour of the lawns when I rolled it out this month. Except that its battery was stone cold dead. That’s where the trouble started.

The machine is less than a year old, so I went out and bought a charger to recharge the battery. I have casually (and stupidly) boosted many a car battery without a thought. But when I opened my new charger’s package and looked at the manual, the first words were: “Always assume that any battery might explode when you least expect it.”

Chilling words. Especially for someone as mechanically maladroit as I am.

It seems that my little battery generates explosive hydrogen gas and can blow at any time. Thus, the key words in my operating instructions are “serious injury,” “blindness,” “permanent disfigurement,” “shock or burns” and, of course, “death.”

What started for me as a simple charging of the battery turned into a perilous journey. I decided to postpone the charging until everyone was out of the house and preferably out of the township.

Then I thought that instead of mowing, I could put on my ear protectors and heavy boots and fire up the gas-powered weed whacker. It’s a mean machine that can hurl chunks of rock 50 feet. If you are careless, it can take down a sapling. The engine, which is at the top end, can incinerate your shirt.

Safer than the battery charger and safer by far than the chainsaw, the hired killer of large-scale landscaping.

I have a collection of chainsaws, and all their manuals are peppered with warnings about death and disfigurement. If I recall correctly, the manual for my first chainsaw warned about killing yourself 17 times in the first few pages. I initially approached the chainsaw the same way I approached my battery charger. Like a coward.

The main danger of the chainsaw is the sharp chain moving at the speed of a rocket. It can snap or jam or, if you are unwary, it can rear back like a startled horse. Just as strong and somewhat more dangerous.

Another danger of the chainsaw lies in the trees you are felling. I have taken down hundreds, and not all have gone where they were supposed to go. (One of my saw manuals says you must have a clear escape route — a place to run — when you start that final cut. Yes, I have scampered away — scuttled, actually — a few times.)

My worst chainsaw moments have been caused by big trees and my miscalculation. The first was a 65-foot white pine. I was almost through when the saw jammed in the cut. When I stepped back — rather quickly — I saw that the tree, which was supposed to fall to the east, was now leaning to the west, in the direction of the power lines.

My other major tree miscalculation was a 60-foot elm. Once again, I jammed the saw as I came near the end of the cut. Once more, I stepped back. Once more, I saw the tree had picked its own place to fall. Not south into the vacant field but north — onto my house.

For the record, I got those two trees down with a lot of care, a long rope and a block and tackle. And hit nothing except my left foot, when the tip of the pine handed on it.

As for the battery charger — that remains to be seen. IE

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