A Lady's Tiller

When I recently became a single woman again, a chore fell to me that had been handled by my ex. Rototilling the garden. We had always used a huge Troybuilt tiller (http://www.troybuilt.com) that was a whole lot more machine than I could handle. The thought of turning the garden by hand, however, made my back ache even before lifting a spade. I decided to research some of the new mini-tillers. Those cute little machines, touted as lady's tillers, and dismissed as completely useless by my ex.

The ads were alluring, showing smiling women apparently effortlessly hoisting the product to chest level. They all promised easy one-pull starts. Having wrestled with pull-start lawnmowers and chainsaws I was skeptical of these claims and largely discounted them. Not enough though.

I wanted a tiller with bolo tines because my gardens had already been created; and I assumed, wrongly as it turned out, that I would prefer this type of tine for the weeding and spring and fall turnings I'd be using the tiller for.

After much deliberation I settled on a model that offered a variable speed motor (http://www.gradeners.com). I found that prices and weights of competing models were nearly identical, as were available attachments.

My tiller arrived in good time and unassembled. The directions for assembly were precise and I had little trouble putting my mighty mite together. With heart beating in excited expectation I lugged my little tiller to the garden. I doubt I looked much like the smiling lady in the ad, that sucker was heavy! Wheels are an extra attachment that I failed to order.

I set my new tiller down in the garden with a sigh of relief, activated the choke, set my booted foot firmly the guard, flicked the switch to "on", and pulled the recoil cord. And pulled, and pulled, and pulled, and pulled. The particular model I'd ordered is not equipped with a primer, something I had no idea I needed.

I yanked on that darned cord until I'd developed blisters, a bad temper, and a flooded engine. Disgusted, I stomped next door and begged the help of my neighbor-a hefty 6' male. Of course, the contrary beast spurted to life with one pull from Jim, making me feel like an idiot. For about 10 seconds I contemplated sending it back.

Red-faced, I thanked my neighbor and gently squeezed the lever that makes the lines rotate. The tiller took off like the hounds of hell were behind it, rather than a short middle-aged woman gardener. It took a couple of passes before I got the hang of controlling it. No one-handed tilling here! I hung on for dear life and thanked the hours I'd spent in the gym lifting weights.

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