It was a really good day, weatherwise, here in the Sandhills of Nebraska, and it's that rare time I can dare be outdoors exposing my dermatological features to the sun for more than twenty minutes at a shot.
The ancient elderly gentleman who mows the lawn here is in the hospital; nothing serious, but for the moment somewhat incapacitated, and the grass is growing green and high.
Now, there is no way franksolich is going to use a 1962 miniature John Deere tractor (something the size between the largest lawn-mower and an "average-sized" tractor; it's not that I can't, but for obvious reasons I prefer to not operate mechanized equipment, especially when no one else is around.
Always a hand-saw, never a power saw, for example; or always True-Temper garden spade, and never a rotor-tiller for another example. I suspect one of the unintended consequences of this is that I get more exercise than most do.
If the grass gets too high, the 33-year-old farmer six miles down the road will come and cut it.
I drove the tractor out of the shed, and out there in the open, spent the afternoon taking various things apart on it, and putting them back together. I believe I did a competent job; when I put the tractor back, it didn't seem to operate any differently from when I had first driven it out. And besides, a hearing person, upon turning the key in the ignition, would immediately detect if something was amiss and deal with it, and so no harm done.
As someone who has never worked with motors, I found the mechanisms of tractory fascinating.
I know, I know; small things for small minds. But I can imagine 1,407,683 ways less productive to spend an afternoon.
