With the awesome sense of accomplishment that came with mowing our lawn for the first time in many, many years came a few memories…
The first time I ever used a lawn mower, when I was in high school, my step dad gave me a brief training session to get me started. Then he went inside to relax. Fair enough. So I got started, following the directions he’d given me. Within minutes, he dashed out of the front door – I will forever have the image burned into my memory of him running toward me, shouting and waving his arms. “It’s not like vacuuming!” he yelled over the roar of the mower. He’d forgotten the directions about going in straight, even, methodical lines. So I’d been standing in one spot and pushing the machine back and forth just as I would on the living room carpet. Who knew?
And then there was the last time I mowed. It was at the rental house The Husband and I lived in for the first three years of our marriage. There I was, peacefully going back and forth in straight, even lines (you only have to tell me once), minding my own business, when an ENORMOUS BLACK SNAKE, sliced cleanly into two long pieces, flew up into the air right in front of my face.
I decided instantly that I didn’t need that kind of crap shortening my life expectancy. And the mowing was forever more The Husband’s responsibility.
Actually, he was happy to take over that task. I’d had to talk him into letting me help to begin with. See, his dad (wonderful man that he was) had taught him by example that the “women folk” should never have to do yard work or put gas in the car. I was a fool to have disabused him of that notion.
And so, between The Husband and The Boy handling the grass cutting over the years, the last 25 of them have been, for me at least, yard work-free.
Considering how completely wiped I am after this morning’s experience, all I can say is – it was nice while it lasted.