I fought the lawn and the lawn won.

It's time to mow the grass again, or in this case, it's time to get the lawn mower out and amputate the taller weeds in the yard. Lawn mower? I have a lawn in the same sense that people who live with cats are owners. Mine is a felinesques affair with vegetation, with vines, small weird looking plants, briars, and alien life forms found only within the fenced in area I call the back yard.

Many years ago I worked at a large retail giant store that had a service department, such as we were, and part of our job was to go out and fix lawn mowers. We would pull up in front of some million dollar home crammed into a subdivision the size of a cemetery that had a perfect lawn the size of a postage stamp.  The garage would open and there would be some middle aged white man who looked eighteen months pregnant with an attitude that the world had come to an end because his five thousand dollar lawn tractor with its eighty seven inch cut had cut one of the five blades of grass in his yard to an imperfect height.  They would almost always worry aloud that if the problem wasn't corrected soon the whole world might end suddenly. I heard one guy tell his kids to stay the hell off the grass and get back inside. Secretly, I lay awake at night and hope that a wild pack of dogs will show up and ruin his lawn, just to see if it kills him.

I went overboard, once, and bought a decent push mower.  It lasted one season out here, and from that point forward I bought cheap lawnmowers. The one I have now cost one hundred bucks and this is its sixth season. It's underpowered, goes through hell, and I don't care. Vegetation < knee deep? Mike=Happiness. My job is to keep from losing track of the dogs in the back yard.

Honestly, I tried not mowing one year and everyone around me freaked. My neighbors mowed the front yard for me, and it embarrassed me so much I never tried it again. They thought my mower had broken down, so they pitched in, as they could. My friends and family were dismayed as well. So now I mow. Sorta.

I drag the pitiful push mower out of the pitiful shed and glare at it. It doesn't look very good, but after the first few hundred pulls on the cord it coughs to life. Blue smoke rises into the air once again, and mowing season doth begin.  I need to rake, and I need to get a weed eater, and I need to get the dead trees out of the yard, but screw it. I do not have to worry about neighbors doing that for me.  I mowed grass Friday afternoon until the gas ran out, and planned to begin anew Saturday morning.

Saturday morning I let the dogs out, left the door open so they could get back in and went back to sleep. A wet dog jumped up on the bed, and me, to announce that it was raining. I can't bitch. Last year it was so dry the crickets were scared to rub their legs together for fear of fire. Let it rain! Let the earth, and my yard be green, even if I have to mow.  Saturday morning turns into Saturday afternoon and I finally drag the cutting carcass out again, and again I mow.  The rain begins again. In the Summer, with triple digit heat, the rain is a benison. I'll mow in the rain for as long as I can in the Summer, but this is April rain, and it has a nasty chill to it. Soldier on! If I can mow for another hour I'll be done. Over the sound of the infernal combustion engine I hear another rumbling.

It's very unlikely that I'll get hit by lightning. Odds are, and they are very good odds, I can finish mowing without incident. But they are odds akin to letting someone pop away at me from one hundred yards with a small caliber handgun.  Sure, it would have to be a damn lucky shot, but the consequences of being wrong pretty much outweigh the fun and thrill of mowing during an electrical storm. As I drag the mower onto the porch the rain closes in and a minor flood begins to fall from the heaven. Let it rain. The parched earth needs it. The pond needs it. A massive system of wet weather eases over the whole of South Georgia and the drought that has for so long buried its fangs into our souls is loosened, if just a little.

Take Care,

Mike