Mow it like you mean it

It’s dinner time Travellers,

I’m obviously arriving late today. Once you begin your morning in tardiness, it seems the entire day is chasing it’s tail. BUT the weather is splendiferous. I love that word. And I love this weather. ALL DAY LONG. Since the world opened it’s eyes this morning, it’s been everything a person wants in a day’s temperament.

Our morning walk bordered on transcendent, which you may think is abit heavy handed, but truly, the skies seemed almost backlit with blues, pinks and purples, the clouds were all drifty and it was peaceful. The three of us treading thru the world half awake. It’s the way days should begin for us I think, getting outside and greeting the world. And I mean all of us.

And in case you haven’t figured it out by now, I’m trying to woo you into morning walks…


Speaking of outside, last night I had a helluva lawn mowing adventure. Adventure is being generous, but that’s what mowing is for me. It’s venturing into uncharted territory. I didn’t have any real lawn mowing experience prior to my divorce. I grew up with outdoor allergies which kinda gave me a hall pass. I think I sort of a princess as a teenager who eventually dropped the crown on the ground.

My backyard is ginormous. Not exaggerating…


It’s every dog’s idea of paradise, but not the owner, me, who has to mow it. And lately, the grass is just erupting out of the backyard’s every orifice. Rapidly exploding like it’s on steroids, which presents a very specific set of problems. Problems I did not know existed until my single girl lawn mowing adventures.

Did you know that grass congeals on the underbelly of the mower itself when it’s moist? It does. And I had no idea. It’s really a special kind of awful. Then that thick build up causes the blade to stall out and the mower shuts off. In mid mowing sentence. What happens next can only be described as a maneuver I call burping the mower, to make it cough up all that grassy gunk. Then it wheezes and sputters to start again leaving behind little verdant mounds in the yard. (which you can see in the photo from and center.) Like grass poop. Or mower vomit, you choose. And you cannot mow over these little piles without upping the ante.

For the final hurrah, you have to gently tilt the mower on it’s side so you can scrape the remaining lawn mortar. It’s thick. It’s like wiping off the mower’s butt, similar to a baby, if that baby were metal, substantially heavier and able to accidentally slice your hand off. Otherwise it grows mold in the garage.


Last night was particularly difficult, and I spent my entire evening battling the great outdoors. The things you learn as a divorced woman. And to my wasband’s credit, he was a masterful greens keeper. I am not. I am getting it done.

As I was mowing thru the more uneventful stretches of green, I considered maybe hiring someone to finish the lawn. Just the random patches. Because I was so frustrated and wanted to quit. But I wasn’t going to quit, then I remembered this short story that Stephen King wrote years ago called “The Lawnmower Man” which is in a collection called “Night Shift”. I think I was in fifth or sixth grade when I read it. There were group of us that read ahead of our class and Stephen King caught my attention at a young age. This particular story is quite grotesque and disturbing. And specific. The imagery is very David Cronenberg-Esque. It’s a bizarre take on something very mundane. I only read it one time, but I still remember it vividly. Random memory from out of nowhere.

Then I was thinking about the “American Dream” or the ideals that once seem to guide the citizens of this country. (Sharp left turn, I know.) And how mowing the lawn seemed to be portrayed as a source of pride for men of a certain era. They even wore shirts and ties and sometimes suits for the occasion! It was something they discussed with neighbors and manicured it weekly. Because having a home with a yard were checkpoints in that dream. Along with a wife, 2 kids and a job. They didn’t shy away from hard work, they made it fancy. They took pride in it. Or so it seems.

I can’t imagine that world…And I can wonder, were they happy? Was life simpler? Did having a checklist work out for them? Or was everyone stuffing their discontentment down into the soles of their soul?

Maybe they just chose to behave better, that’s where I leave you tonight..

Oh, and, I’m pretty sure women weren’t allowed to cut the grass much less burp the mower during that era. And I would certainly hate to miss those experiences…because I’m working on the DO, instead of the dream…






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