And we're off...or not.

Nanny called on Tuesday night and said that Pop-Pop had the tiller running. The best news was that Chris, one of the strapping young men in neighborhood, had been there when it happened, and he had tilled up the entire pea patch. Woohooo! I said I'd be down there the next evening to plant the peas.

I went to the garden about 4 p.m. yesterday. The newly-plowed spot was bristling with bermuda grass roots. I decided to rake out the grass before I planted the peas. Four hours later, I staggered to the shed to get the tiller, intending to turn up a little more grass from the depths.

That's when I discovered the tiller's real problem: it is deaf.

Before I yanked the cord the first time, I said to it, "Ok, I heard you're a go-getter. Show me what you've got." I pushed all the levers, shifted to neutral, and pulled. The tiller did not seem mildly interested in cranking. I yanked a few more times, adjusted the levers, gave it a pep talk, yanked again. And again and again and again. Finally, it coughed and sputtered to life. I herded it to the garden and had tilled up about three strips when it quit.

I checked the gas, and topped off the tank. I adjusted levers. I cranked and cranked and cranked. I cajoled it, cussed it, and shamed it. "This is your last chance, buddy." Yank. And it absolutely refused to start.

Hmph.

I left it where it sat.