It's almost time in my part of the countryto start cutting the grass.
It's time to tune up the lawnmowers
and rig up the weed eaters
and be prepared for a yard that
will never stop growing
until October.
I like to mow.
There is something quite empowering
about calmly sitting back
on a moving machine
that has deadly blades swirling
beneath it.
There's a sense of adventure-
of being out in the air and sunshine.
It's an opportunity for artistic expression-
of whether you will keep the
rows straight
or divert them into
a maze of emerald wonder.
My yard takes about two hours
to mow and trim.
That gives me two hours
of empty brain time
that I can fill with anything I want.
The only distraction is
the hum of the engine-
and sometimes the chunk-ka-chunk
as I speed over a pile
of sweetgum balls and they
propel like bullets from
the grass chute.
I sing.
I recite quotes.
I plan supper.
I pray.
But mostly sing.
It always sounds good
because you can't really hear it.
There is no other time on earth
like the time spent on a lawnmower.
I will admit I have had my share
of mower mishaps.
No matter how safe I try to be,
I nearly always slice the
roots of the maple tree out front.
Their thick gnarly roots
must be taken in slow motion,
at a delicate speed,
with careful, attentive
lawnmower love.
Don't tell my husband,
but I've hit the house before.
I mean- nothing major-
just scraped the front tires
across the foundation,
leaving a black scuff of rubber
on the gray block.
There are several occasions
that I was sure I'd slide into the pond-
mowing at an angle only
meant for mountain goats.
I've been slapped by branches
and stabbed by limbs
and attacked by more insects
than a rain forest.
I've been sunburned,
palm-blistered,
and butt-numbed.
But yet- I go back.
Each week I climb up
on that big red grass-chewing monster
and rule the yard.
And for two hours,
I am Queen.
I am invincible.
I am in charge.
I am an American Idol.
"Like a true nature's child I was born,
born to be wild
I can mow so high-
It's nev-er gon-na diiiiiie..."
