Mowing, Mowing, Mown...

Think Green Acres. Think wide-brimmed straw hat. Think mower with a longer wheel base than most cars. Think multiple acres of over-long grass. Think me.

Feel free to laugh. Heartily.

And…

Think about the blessing of a well-timed breeze, toads, bluebirds, watching sun kisses appear. Think about the smell of just-mowed grass. Think about driving spiral tractor patterns centered on a peach tree, a smoke bush, a European larch. Think about the pride of accomplishment that comes from generating hundreds of pounds of grass clippings for the compost pile. Think about sitting on the seat, cranking it up, and driving this machine for the first time--I mean, this is not a suburban Toro riding mower, but a hello it cost six grand used, it’s seven feet wide, it has a five-gallon gas tank, it can push a plow or a mower or any one of a number of other attachments, it has hydraulic lifts kind of machine. Maneuvering between garden beds and alongside plants and buildings includes risk (sorry about the hostas, mom).

Mowing has a beginning, a middle, and an end. Sometimes the end is merely hours away; sometimes it is days away. Think about donning work gloves to take the front housing off because one of the belts has slipped and noticing that both of the belts that drive the mower are worn. Think about poring over the manual and parts list to identify what’s needed and calling to find out whether or not the closest dealer has them in stock. Think about adopting an entirely new vocabulary subset in order to support the mission. Think about doing this a scant week after moving nearly 800 miles.

Think about what it means to live in the country rather than in a town or a city. Think about how bright the stars shine at night when there’s no light pollution.

~M


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