It’s time to mow again. If I sound aggravated, I am. Mowing one’s lawn is supposed to be a happy chore: you strideacross your land pushing thunder before you, a trail of weeds and dominated grass spewing behind you. But for me, mowing is an aggravation. My grass is shin high and there are weeds that look as if they could beat me at arm wrestling. It’s time to mow again.
Once I became so aggravated at an amazingly recalcitrant mower, I pushed it down to the gully, swing it by the handles like an Olympic hammer thrower and tossed it into the ravine. Ask my wife. She’ll tell you. It’s a true story and I’m glad I did it. It’s probably still there.
The last time I cut grass I found the mower huddled in the corner of the garage like a hibernating animal. It had somehow built a thicket of chairs, a fertilizer spreader, boxes, a powered edger and somehow pulled our wheelbarrow over itself like a blanket. All my lawn mowing emotions had returned. All the hate I felt for weeds. All the glee at seeing decapitated dandelions.
I drug the lawn mower out of the tangle and hauled it into the sunlight, checked the oil and refilled the gas. I plugged in my iPod, twirled the volume to extra loud and donned my floppy hat with the bite out of the brim where Belle the dog got it. Unbelievably it caught on the first pull, then choked, coughed, convulsed and died. I pulled again and it started. Thank you Jesus!
I, lawn God, then strode purposefully into my deep lawn ready to mulch. Keep your fingers crossed.
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