It was a cool September afternoon years ago when I adopted Allis. I had high hopes for a long and lasting relationship, but she needed care. Love at first sight is fine, but I had no way of knowing how much effort would I have to invest? How much time? Would she be uncooperative? Cranky? Independent? She had to be healthy by winter. That was my goal. By then, we would have spent enough time together for me to get to know her, inside and out. I remember smiling thinking that I could make this work. Would it be worth it?
She had been sleeping under a blanket and surrounded by junk cars. For her age? She was in great shape. Still, she’d need some care. She hadn’t been walked in a very long time. I talked to her owner and soon I found myself driving her home. She just barely fit into the back of my SUV and she weighed a ton. Was I making a mistake?
I remember talking to her, “Don't worry Allis, I said, We’ll work well together, you and I.”
I cleaned her up and played with her. I’d get her going and she’d growl. Then I might have to leave her alone for a few days until we had time to work together again. It was frustrating, but I knew it would require patience. That was years ago.
The first snow fell and winter arrived. By then we had an understanding. I thought she might work. I thought she could get the job done. It was a cold day and an inch of the white stuff covered the ground when I took her for her first walk. I could tell that she really wanted to run but then she hesitated. She stopped. And she changed her mind. I could not get her to go, so Allis went back inside and sat in the garage watching me shovel. I grew nervous. I was not happy. This was not the plan.
When winter arrived, full blown and the snow covered, I needed her help. I worked with her some more until the day arrived when I told her, “ Allis, it’s time to earn your keep!” She must have felt my earnestness. She listened. Sheepishly she took me for a walk, 200 feet down the driveway. Then, with growing confidence we both turned left and cleared the sidewalk, but the farther we got from home, the more concerned I became. If she decided not to go a step further? I’d never be able to pull or push this beast up my driveway. I couldn’t lift her into my truck if I had to. We walked on. My worries were unfounded. It was the beginning of a long and successful relationship.
Today? When a neighbor or friend meets Allis for the first time they might ask, “How old is that snowblower?”
I smile thinking that we have become antiques together. My hair has thinned and her orange paint has chipped. I know every inch of her 205 pounds. She moves slowly, confidently cleaning the pavement 28 inches at a time, easily throwing the snow as I follow behind her listening to her song.
“This is my girl Allis. Allis Chalmers,” I say. “It’s not polite to ask a lady’s age,“ I tell them, “but she was born in 1979.”
The day arrives each spring when I must walk her to the shed. There she sleeps like a bear until winter returns. There she sits in the back, taking her rightful spot, hibernating.
She ‘s family now and before putting Allis to bed, I read to her. It’s our tradition. I read about oil capacity and how to replace the starting rope. About tightening the muffler and repairing the wheel chains. I squirt grease into the Zerks fittings, and pull the plug to give a squirt of this spray or that mystery oil.
“Here’s your cough medicine Allis,” I say.
I’ve doctored her for so long now that when she is running I can listen to her complaints. I can smell her breath. I can feel stress in her body, I can hear her ailments and I talk to her as I my screwdriver implements adjustments to help her breathe.
Vibrating parts are tightened, molasses-oil is replaced with honey-colored elixir. Cables and belts are poked and pulled before the rope is yanked one last time. She hums. She sings. She sits outside my shed and screams. This girl’s eight horses can still winnie! I smile listening to her final aria before, spitting and sputtering, she runs out of gas. “I’ll be right here checking on you,” I tell her as I push Allis up the ramp and slide her to the back corner where she finds comfort. Sleep Allis. Sleep.
“Well?“ I say turning to my mower, “I guess you’re next! Time for your spring checkup. Remember me?” And pushing it down the ramp, wrenches at the ready, it enters the operation arena. “Toro? It's time for you to wake up. You’ve had a nice rest, but the grass is getting long and it’s time to get to work.”