Faith: Bowed to pressure of a good zero-turn lawn mower

I bowed to peer pressure recently. Ironically, the pressure came from the very offspring I’d always sternly counseled to avoid peer pressure.

Yes, and I’d also taught them to resist blaming other people for their own actions. None of this, “He made me mad, so I decked him.” Nope. You let the kid punch your buttons and you — yes, son, you! — chose to deck him. You made the choice. Now, own it, and deal with the consequences.

Whether or not you’re taking the jerk down a notch or two was, in fact, a benefit to humanity is another question. But it’s the stated policy of this family (I paraphrase from the “Shelburneshire Code of Conduct ,” Chapter 2, Section 3, Paragraph 21) that it’s foolish to let fools punch your buttons, and, generally speaking, we avoid punching people even if they need to be punched.

All to say, I did bow to peer pressure. No one made me.

It’s just that in addition to seven incredible grandchildren, eight mostly above average grand-dogs (I include one bug-eyed pug who might lower the average a bit), and, presently, a few chickens, ducks, and ducklings, our corner of the Shelburne clan has come to own three zero-turn riding lawn mowers.

Those things are amazing. I admit that I got to the point that I couldn’t walk past one of them parked in one of our family garages without coming seriously close to breaking the commandment, “Thou shalt not covet...”

Well, “thou” really shouldn’t, but I guess “I” really did. Anyway, I found myself reading reviews of the various brands and options of those amazing mowers that will, quite literally, turn on a dime. They’d be incredibly fun to pilot even if you never turned the blades on. They have rather massive cutting widths, and I figured that using one of them would cut not just grass but the time it takes me to cut our grass in about half. That seems like good stewardship of time, certainly a virtue.

I should mention here that my wife and I are approaching 48 years of marriage. (That’s the real number. We didn’t test drive for 12 years before taking vows.) For a number of those years, I’ve counted pretty heavily on the fact that it would likely be too much trouble for her to break in another one. I may at times be presumptuous, but I do know that buying a very high-dollar item (these gold-plated mower things count) without running the idea by her would be a mistake.

So, I flew a balloon or two. Just commented as I passed a son’s grass-cutting machine, “Wow, it must be nice to have one of those! Hmm. Wonder how much that thing would cut down a three-hour mowing challenge? Ten thousand square feet of yard. Boy, my back’s still sore from the last time I tackled mowing the estate.”

She saw it coming. Caught me fiddling with what amounted to zero-turn lawn mower porn on my computer. Drooling.

Yep, she knew the signs. And, retired municipal judge that she is, issued an edict bereft of judicial authority but scary nonetheless, “You can get one of those, but only after you clean out the garage.”

So, of course, I did.

I maintain that I did. She maintains that the job is not yet even close to finished. I admit that she has a point, but I counter that now, with a little effort, her minivan will fit.

She charges that I cheated. I say that it was because I figured she’d be happier if I went ahead and purchased the mower while she was away delivering “Meals on Wheels” that I did so.

We’re not in the right denomination for me to simply argue that the Creator of the universe was on my side and wanted me to have this machine. “Well, dear, I just felt led...” Nor is my wife gullible.

I’m still working on the garage. She has even test-driven the mower, though not engaged the blades yet. Hasn’t stuck a blade in me, yet, either.

Curtis Shelburne writes about faith for The Eastern New Mexico News. Contact him at:

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