It’s with heaviness in my heart that I tell you about the passing of my dear friend, Toro. My long-snouted companion of nineteen+ years passed relatively quickly, though not without pain. The grim reaper’s presence was signaled by an unusual grinding and metallic coughing, followed by hiccups and stammering, topped off by a little puff of air and finished with the big kaput.

Goodbye my favorite leaf blower.

His last, pitiful puff was nothing like the strong wind he was known for in his heyday. He had gone from gale force to barely a breeze in a matter of seconds. I left the beat-up old guy splayed out on the deck, right where he fell, in hopes my mechanically-gifted husband might find a way to resuscitate him.

When Frank arrived, I ushered him to where Toro lay helpless, his nose cone still proudly hanging on by the duct tape I’d put in place years before. Without any to-do, Frank calmly——and with a surprising lack of emotion——officially pronounced my Toro dead.

“That’s it?” I asked, trailing him into the house. “You’re not even going to fiddle with it?” He was the king of fiddling.

“There’s nothing I can do.” He said it all matter of factly, like a detached surgeon relaying bad news to the shocked family.

And with that, my favorite outdoor assistant was gone.

One of the most beautiful features of our old Atlanta neighborhood is the statuesque, mature trees. Our home is surrounded by a canopy of oaks and poplars. The big guys drop enough leaves, acorns and assorted stuff to keep the yard covered and the Toro busy pretty much year ’round.

I bonded with Toro during the nesting phase of my first pregnancy. It was a rock-solid bond that grew deeper with my second pregnancy and even deeper with my third. Growing a baby is no swift process, so the immediate satisfaction of clearing a leaf-strewn porch, driveway or deck brought me immense, clean, happy happy, joy joy.

It’s a shocking truth, but I have a couple friends who claim there should be a noise ordinance against the peaceful hum of a leaf blower. I still love them, despite their blasphemy. To me, it’s a lovely sound of progress and productivity.

Over the years, Toro has saved me from more than just leafy messes. He’s saved the kids from an untold number of accidents, what with nuts dropping all over our driveway, which is basically an all-sport court for running, scootering, rip-sticking, basketball and anything else you really shouldn’t do on marbles.

Then there was the incident with the surely deadly snake. It had to be five, maybe even six, inches long.

As a freelance advertising copywriter, I was knocking out a radio script on the back porch, about to pick Emma up from preschool, when I spied the creepiest of all creepies, right there in front of her playhouse. Now don’t go all reptile rights on me, I know they do some good things, like eat yucky vermin in their quest to overcome the whole Biblical satan snafu. But still, they were cursed to be our enemy, so my enemy it was.

When I spotted the cold-blooded, could-be killer coiled like a tiny cobra right there on the threshold of Em’s plastic palace, I thought quickly and did what any brave soul would do——I grabbed my Toro. Heart pounding, I plugged in my loyal friend and together we blew the serpent to kingdom come, which in this case, was located at the end of our driveway (determined by the length of my extension cord). The knotted-up, must’ve been dizzy snake lay in shock, the victim of Toro’s full-throttle power unleashed. It was a beautiful moment. One of many.

So it’s with a deep sigh that I say goodbye my trusted compadre. So long you dedicated cleaning machine. Thank you for always giving it your all, until your all was all gone.