|Posted by Val Enders on August 26, 2012 at 6:30 PM|
Out in the shed I am met with an angry horde of starving mosquitoes. After all this rain and heat they are voracious, and it looks like I am the only chunk of meat on the menu. Grabbing “Rusty’s” handle with one hand, and the weed wacker with the other, I manage to escape, but once again I scrape my skull on the top of the door. Why oh why, couldn’t the company who made this shed realize that not every one is a Hobbit???
Rusty” (as I affectionately call my lawn mower) and I have a long history. He was an anniversary gift from Hubby early in our marriage, so he is not in his prime of life. I am not a novice in the lawn mowing arena, and know enough to check for gas. The gas can is empty and peering into the lawn mower, it looks like there is only half a tank left. I will have to really move it if I am going to make it without running out. First order of business is trimming. I put on the gloves and get a good grip on the weed wacker. I prime it and give the cord a yank.... and a yank... and a yank. I’m surprised that my right arm isn’t the size of “Popeye’s” by now. I haven’t even started mowing yet and already I’m sweating like a pig, and the heat is making my legs and feet swell up like puffer fish. My, that’s an attractive look for a gal.
Finally the stupid thing starts, and I run around like a crazed, machete wielding parolee, destroying everything in my path. I ignore the fact that in that path are my toes and I grit my teeth each time the cord gives me a stinging slap. Note to self, wear shoes, and not flip flops. Naturally, the wacker spits out the last bit of cord before I can finish, so I throw it back in the shed. It’s too hot to deal with that now.
“Rusty” is as reliable as the day is long, and sure enough he starts like a dream. The only drawback is the still slightly wet grass which is up to my armpits, and I quickly learn “Rusty” doesn’t like these conditions. I coax him around the lawn, pleading for him to give it his all, but by the time we make one round the bag is bulging and the chute is plugged. Yikes! What was I thinking when I put on that fertilizer? This bag weighs at least sixty pounds and I have to lift this thing up and over the edge of the green bin? The grass is wet, so I need to unplug the grass chute on the mower each time we make a round, and worried about running out of gas, I start sprinting around the yard as fast as I can. You’d think someone just yelled “fifty percent off your purchase!”
All the while “Rusty” is leaving behind mounds of grass. His wheels are green and my legs are spattered with clippings, my toes are slimy green from the wet grass, and bruised from the weed wacker. Still we soldier on. One strip left up the middle and “Rusty” starts to cough. “Come on Boy”, I plead, “You can do it!” I pick up the pace but to no avail. Sputtering and coughing, “Rusty” is at his limit. He’s out of gas, and I’m out of steam. We’re done.
Trudging up to the steps I flop down to survey the yard. Blobs of grass are everywhere, and weeds poke up from around the edges in random areas where the wacker ran out of cord. A long crooked strip of grass runs right up the centre of the yard, and my flip flop lies sideways next to poor “Rusty.” It certainly wasn’t the pristine cut I’d envisioned, but man, that grass is lush and green! I think I’ll take a shower and have a rest. I’ll leave “Rusty” and the green bin for Hubby to put away. That is the least he can do since I’ve managed to give us the greenest lawn on the block. But, you know, maybe I’ll back off on the fertilizer.......... just for awhile.
Categories: Editorials published on Northern Star