Fifty Yards to Wisdom

Charlie Morton swore he could fix anything with duct tape and patience. That was almost true. He’d mended tractors, toasters, and even the town’s Christmas lights with those two tools, but patience wasn’t what you’d call his strong suit.

It was a Tuesday morning in mid-October, and the day started like a cup of weak coffee, lukewarm and uncertain. Charlie was out by the shed, wrestling with his riding mower.

It hadn’t run since the county fair, and that was over a month ago. Charlie had promised neighbor, Lila Jensen, he’d mow her field “as soon as it’s fixed.”

“Fixed” was a flexible term in Charlie’s vocabulary.

Now, if you asked him, he’d tell you that machines had personalities. The mower, for example, was “stubborn but honest.” The truck was “moody.”

And the toaster? “A liar.”

So there he was, sitting cross-legged in the grass, wrench in hand, mumbling to the mower like a man trying to talk sense into a mule. The sun was climbing up lazy and bright, and a couple of crows were laughing in the pecan tree.

“Keep a clear mind,” Charlie muttered, tightening a bolt that probably didn’t need tightening. “You won’t miss a thing.”

He’d heard that phrase somewhere, maybe from an old fishing buddy or one of those radio preachers who sounded more like auctioneers than men of faith. Either way, he’d taken it to heart.

Just then, Lila wandered over, carrying two mugs of coffee.

“You sure you don’t want me to call someone who knows what they’re doing?” she asked, smiling like she already knew the answer.

“Lila,” Charlie said, taking the coffee, “if I can’t fix it, it probably doesn’t want to be fixed.”

She raised an eyebrow. “And if it doesn’t want to be fixed?”

“Then I’ll out-stubborn it.”

Lila chuckled and sat on the fence. “You been out here since sunrise?”

“Pretty near,” he said, sipping his coffee. “Got to get the mind right before you get the machine right.”

He said it as if it were gospel truth, and maybe it was, in its own small-town way.

After another hour of fussing and muttering, Charlie finally got the mower to sputter, cough, and roar to life. The engine rattled like a snake, but it ran. He leaned back, grinning, grease on his hands and triumph in his eyes.

“There,” he said. “Just needed a little convincing.”

He hopped on, tipped his hat to Lila, and took off across the field. He made it about fifty yards before the mower gave a loud clank, coughed again, and quit altogether. The silence afterward was almost dramatic.

Charlie stared at the smoking machine, sighed, and said, “All right, you win this round.”

Lila clapped her hands over her mouth, laughing. “Guess it didn’t want to be fixed after all.”

Charlie stood, brushed off his knees, and gave the mower a long, thoughtful look. “You know,” he said, “sometimes keeping a clear mind just means knowing when to walk away.”

He walked back toward the shed, coffee cup still in hand, and added over his shoulder, “But I’ll be back after lunch. Can’t let it think it’s smarter than me.”

The crows laughed again from the tree, like they’d been waiting for that line all morning.

And if you’d been there, watching the Charlie wander off with that quiet grin, you’d have understood that patience isn’t about never giving up, but knowing when to step back, take a breath, and come at it fresh.

Keep a clear mind, and you won’t miss a thing.