Last
time, I was telling you of my mis-adventures in gardening—specifically as they
relate to mowing and my failure to PLAN AHEAD. Full confession? I might have
thrown what used to be known as a “rigging fit.”
On or about the third
tablespoon of gas in the half-tablespoon tank of my push-mower—did I mention I
was pouring from a five-gallon can? A full five-gallon can? --and/or the 482
time I’d had to restart my grass-choked mower, my inner logger came out; I
muttered and stomped around, red-faced and steaming, smoke boiling from my
ears. I kicked rocks. I kicked the ground, and I confess, Gentle Reader, that
if I had had a lunch bucket I would have pitched it from the landing while turning
the air blue with my heart-felt, fervent utterances. And I didn’t even HAVE a
landing! No matter! Get me a lunch bucket and I will fling it! Oh, that was
your lunch bucket? No matter! I will fling all the buckets! All, I say!
By the
time property values in my neighborhood had dropped significantly, and small
children had been ushered safely indoors---and I was out of lunch buckets-- I
finally calmed down. Four full years and five lawn mowing seasons have come and
gone since that awful day in January and I can hardly blame Shane’s absence for
my own inability to step up to the plate this season and problem solve the
problem by—oh, I don’t know—PREVENTING IT.
That’s
on me and I need to own it. And I probably need to replace the lunch
buckets...what else? Apologize to the neighbors, pay for some pediatric
ear-wash, make sure none of my “rigging fit” ended up on YouTube... I’m not
exactly sure what the moral of my cautionary tale is—I only know that after I
calmed down I went into the garage and my riding mower fired right up.
Seriously.
 |
| Look at me, sitting down, mowing grass. What a concept! |
It did.
Make
of that what you will. I made hay while the sun shone.
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