For some reason mowing my lawn has emerged as the bane of my existence. I’m not sure why this is. One reason might be that mowing the lawn was one of my chores as a kid and it takes me back to those hot days of childhood. My dad made mowing the lawn seem cool (I think he convinced me it was a form of driving–machine, steering, control). I watched him with envy and then I literally begged to do it. How smart was he to use reverse psychology on his kid in order to get her to do chores. It’s brilliant, but sick.
By the age of nine, mowing the lawn had become my job and after the first five minutes of machine-awe wore of, it felt like one. Because the mower regularly spewed out sticks and small rocks in unpredictable arcs, mowing the lawn required full-on protective garb: sunglasses, old grass-stained nylon Nikes, sneakers, tube socks (pulled up to the knee), long sleeved shirt, and a Sony walkman (with the volume turned up to 10 in order to hear something over the noise of the mower).
Looking back on this now, I realize that the lawnmower was missing 1) a bag and 2) a guard/shield thingy. It was a treacherous piece of shit.
And now I have another one.
I mowed the lawn yesterday and once again felt that old fear of flying stones and run-away blades. Pierre used some black electrical tape on the cable and now I can start it. I just can’t turn it off, so I kept mowing. I began to feel ridiculous. I had visions of my Lawnman taking off on its own, mowing down small children and little dogs, careening recklessly through the neighborhood like some kind of small engine version of Christine.
Here’s the thing: in the end, I had to use a SLEDGEHAMMER to move the bracket-thingy connected to the spring-hoodickey that is linked to the engine or something to finally cut off the gasoline supply.
All of this only hardens my resolve to plant all perennials and vegetables next spring. I’m so over lawns.