Friday, September 10, 2010


The lawn guys came this week to aerate or something the lawn.  Let's get something straight first.  I grew up in the country on an acreage.  The lawn mowing was a chore, a job, a task.  We had one acre of obstacle course.  Each tree was planted with a specific purpose: to be run into or run over.  And then there was the terrain.  Bumpy, random daisy patched, occasional gopher holed ground - all under the guise of being a lawn. So, you get the picture - lawn mowing was, at best, a four wheeling adventure that was done on an obligatory basis.

Now I live in the suburbs.  In-ground sprinklers are a given and we are the only people on the cul-de-sac who actually mow our own lawn.  A different lawn care outfit hauls up every day of the week to manicure one of the neighbors' golf course lawns.  My husband takes great pride in his landscaping, weed whacking, trimming and careful mowing of his kingdom.  So much that he doesn't let me even look at the lawn tools in the garage - much less actually use them.  This doesn't bother me.  He does, however, want my opinions on things like, shrub placement, mulch colors, flower choices, and tree branch trimming.  These are all things that I know compliment one's property and should be carefully thought out.  It's really too bad that I could give two flips about the whole process.

So, last Sunday, when my Dad hopped on the most prized possession in our garage, took it for a spin, and ended up four wheeling over a small retaining wall, drilling through our landscaping mulch, buzzing off a couple lilies, and ending up wedged on an incline between two evergreens... well, the earth almost ceased to revolve around the
sun... really.

By the grace of God, civility overpowered my husband's urge to become completely unglued.  Once the blood started flowing to my husband's face again, he finished the task looking like he was trying to digest rocks. As for my Dad, he sat on the front stoop of our house looking much like a little kid who just got in trouble for accidentally breaking a window or a prized bowling trophy.

Ahh... life.. it's all good, right?  We now all try to ignore the grinding, errr- ca-chunk noise that ensues every time the steering wheel is turned, and the six foot tall, seventy year old kid sticks to what he's best at - not a lawn boy, but instead the best grandpa our kids could ever hope for - and heck, he's a hero to them now - he's the rootin' tootin' lawn mower cowboy!

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