Now, I don't know if you've noticed this, but there seems to be an unwritten law of the universe.
If somebody says, "You can have it."
...you probably shouldn't.

Especially if the next sentence is...
"It worked the last time I used it."
That's not a guarantee.
That's a confession.

I learned that lesson from my friend George.

Now George wasn't a bad mechanic.
He wasn't a good mechanic either.
He occupied that wide stretch of ground somewhere in the middle where confidence greatly exceeded talent.

George believed three things could fix almost anything.
Duct tape.
WD-40.
And thinking about it real hard.

One Saturday morning I found him standing beside an old wood splitter parked at the edge of his driveway.
He was grinning.
Whenever George grinned like that, somebody else's afternoon was about to disappear.

"Guess what?"
"I don't know," I said cautiously.
"I got this for free."

There it was.
Those five dangerous words.

The wood splitter looked like it had fought in two wars and lost both of them.
Rust covered everything except the places where the rust had worn off.
One tire leaned sideways.
The pull rope had been replaced with what looked suspiciously like an old clothesline.

I looked at George.
Then I looked back at the machine.

"It run?"
"Oh sure."
"When?"
He scratched his chin.
"Well..."
"I didn't ask if it ever ran."
"I asked when."

He smiled.
"The fellow said it worked fine the last time he used it."

I nodded.
"Did he happen to mention when Abraham Lincoln was president?"

George ignored me.
He always ignored good advice.
It saved him from having to admit I was occasionally right.

He wrapped the rope around his hand.
"Stand back."

That sentence should have been my second warning.

The first pull nearly separated his shoulder.
The second produced a noise I can only describe as a walrus clearing its throat.
The third startled a flock of birds out of the trees.

By the tenth pull...
...the machine remained completely unimpressed.

George stood there breathing like he'd just climbed a mountain carrying a refrigerator.
"It wants fuel."
"No," I said.
"It wants retirement."

He frowned.
"You always think negative."
"I call it experience."

By lunchtime we'd replaced the spark plug.
The fuel line.
The air filter.
The pull cord.
The carburetor.
And, for reasons I still don't understand, one perfectly good lawn chair that somehow became collateral damage.

Three trips to town.
Two hardware stores.
One farm supply.
A hamburger.
Another spark plug because George dropped the first one into a puddle and announced, "It'll probably be fine."
It wasn't.

By four o'clock that afternoon, George proudly announced he'd only spent about four hundred dollars.
"Not bad," he said.
"For what?"
"A free wood splitter."

I stared at him.
"George..."
"You know that sentence doesn't make any sense."
"It does if you don't think about it too much."

That, in my opinion, explained most of George's life.

Late that evening, after one final adjustment that involved a hammer, a crescent wrench, and what looked suspiciously like prayer...
...the old machine coughed.
Sneezed.
Backfired loud enough to scare every squirrel in three counties...
...and finally roared to life.

George threw both hands in the air like he'd just won the World Series.
"I told you!"

He was so busy celebrating he forgot one small detail.
There happened to be a log sitting in the splitter.
The hydraulic ram lunged forward.
The log exploded into two pieces.
One half landed in the firewood pile.
The other half sailed clean over George's pickup and disappeared into Mrs. Henderson's prize pumpkin patch.

A few seconds later we heard her unmistakable voice drifting across the field.
"GEORGE!"

He looked at me.
I looked at him.
"You know," I said, "I think your free wood splitter just got more expensive."

He sighed.
"I was afraid you were going to say that."

I've thought about that day more than once.
It taught me something.
Nothing in this world is truly free.
Sooner or later you'll pay for it.
Usually in money.
Sometimes in time.
And every once in a while...
...in pumpkins.

That's George for you.
He could turn a free afternoon into a full-blown adventure without even trying.

Truth be told...
I'd probably help him do it again next Saturday.

I want to preface this story by stating that "George" really is a friend of mine... and this first story really is George... I knew he would come in handy someday...!