Mow, mow, mow your grass

I try to keep some things about myself quiet. Like the fact that I can mow the lawn. Some household tasks have become firmly the property of either my hubby or me. I do laundry. He mows the lawn. And my mom’s lawn. And often HIS mom’s lawn. He hates it. He’d rather mow the pasture on the big old Farmall tractor.

However, due to a mishap on Thursday which you can read about here, I have been forced to take on a few more duties for a while.

Yesterday, I mowed the lawn. And Mom’s lawn. I didn’t do a very good job. It’s not a chore at which I wish to excel.

The Wheel Horse we use is almost an antique, but it still runs like a champ. It belonged to my dad, who gave it to my hubby when Dad started failing and could no longer keep up with the grass. It’s one of those things that still gives me a feeling of connection with Dad.

Mostly, yesterday I heard him chiding me for the way I was mowing. Dad was a perfectionist where grass-cutting was concerned. Mom once mowed the yard and he wasn’t happy at all. She didn’t do it right. I know for a fact that I was not doing it right either. I went in circles. Around the edges and worked my way in until the turning radius was too tight. Then I did some weird maneuvers to get the center done. It wasn’t pretty. But as I stated previously, I don’t want this job.

Anyhow, my dad used to go back and forth and back and forth, making neat lines and designs on the grass. Dad had too much time on his hands. He didn’t have to get finished and fix supper and put the laundry away.

Also, on orders of my now invalid hubby, I just backed the Wheel Horse into the shed and left it when I was done. I heard Dad’s screams in my head. He NEVER put it away without hosing off the mower deck and usually scraping and scrubbing the encrusted grass from its underside.

Kids. They just don’t know how to take care of equipment. Wait. I don’t know if I was channeling Dad there or my grandpap.

Comments

Anonymous said…
For me, it's when I'm in that room with the stove. I can hear my Dad every time. (Fortunately, it's not often I'm in there).

I'll hear: "You shouldn't have let that boil so long." "Heat's too high." "That's not enough garlic." And on and on. Then I'll hear Mom, "Oh, leave her alone, Jimmy. At least she's trying."

Paula J. Matter

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