Mowed
As a kid my chore was to wash the dishes, while my brother had to mow the lawn/shovel the snow. I had longed to mow the grass, anything to get away from washing the dishes. I hated doing the dishes. I didn’t get the chance to mow grass until I was about 11 and spending a week in the city with my Aunt. She caved in and let me mow her back yard. She was in a panic thinking my mother would tear her apart for letting a girl mow the grass. I relished in the joy of mowing. It was so wonderful to be able to push the mower over the grass, a forbidden chore for a girl.
I didn’t get to mow again until I was in High School and my brother left for College. I still loved it, but I was still required to wash dishes, which I loathed more and more with each dirty utensil. I was trapped standing in front of the sink for hours. Right when I’d think I was done, more dishes would appear. It always felt like the task was endless. I longed for a dishwasher thinking that would solve everything. My mother’s answer to each request was always, “I have a dishwasher…you.”
Mowing the grass wasn’t as difficult or tedious. You got to walk around outside and work on your tan. There were no hidden blades of grass that would pop up when you thought you were finished. All you had to do was avoid hitting the metal water thingie that stuck up in the front yard. Simple.
Yesterday, my boy had to go and do something for work so I was alone for the afternoon. I went off to the grocery store and when I came back I stared around the house thinking how I should vacuum, put away the dishes (the dishwasher hasn’t helped me with my loathing of washing dishes, by the way) do laundry, etc. I sat on the back porch staring at the very long grass that would soon envelop little Christian and we wouldn’t be able to find him. I decided I’d mow the grass.
I walked off the deck and started reeling in the hoses. Both dogs were nipping at my heels thinking this was some kind of game. Once the mower was out though, they’d be hiding inside.
I went into the garage and pulled out the mower. I looked at the front yard and thought I should probably start there. I checked the gas level in the mower and positioned it for take off.
I pulled on the cord feeling all the muscles in my right arm, and the mower went, “Hack.” I pulled again, “Wheeze.” I pulled and pulled and pulled. The mower kept acting asthmatic. I looked around the cul de sac imagining all the neighbors staring at me, laughing. That’s what neighbors do, they stare out their windows at you, mocking you as you do your daily tasks. That’s what Dad and I did.
When I realized I’d never get it started, I pushed the mower back into the garage and went inside to the couch. As I nursed the pained muscles in my right arm, I pondered what could be wrong. How did this work when I mowed at Dad’s house? There was this choke bubble thingie you had to push in…then you pulled the cord…hmmm…
I went back out to the mower and looked it over. There in front was the bright red bubble thingie.
I pressed it 3 times (as the sticker above it instructed) and then I went around to the back of the mower, pulled the cord and “cough, cough, sputter wheeze…WHRRRRRRRR!” the mower started. Unfortunately, I pulled the cord with such force, the handle flung from my fingers and slapped me in the face.
The mower pulled itsself forward, I barely had to push at all…I was mowing the grass! I turned to go back the other way, but the yard had such lumps all over and the grass was so tall, I had to push with all my might to get the mower to keep going forward. I couldn’t remember having so much resistance by the grass at Dad’s.
After several passes I realized I needed to dump the bag, it was full and clippings were being left in my wake. I stopped the mower and went for the “yard waste” bags that we’re required to use.
These are brown bags about 4 feet high, I had to practically crawl into the bag to get it to open properly so that it would stand on its own. Now was the hard part, trying to figure out how to get the bag off the machine. There was a handle, but it didn’t seem to want to move. Perhaps I wasn’t using enough force to get it to move. But I didn’t want to risk breaking the mower. I pushed and pulled at the handle but it didn’t seem to want to let go of the bag. Finally, I LIFTED and PULLED on the handle and it released. It only took about 1/2 an hour for me to sort that out. The neighbors got a good chuckle I’m sure. The bag of clippings was so heavy, I had a hard time lifting it high enough to pour the stuff in to the yard waste bag. And of course, the yard waste bag had to buckle and cave in as I tried to pour the grass inside. Then the grass got clumped and wouldn’t pour. I had to stick my hand in and pull the grass out, into the other bag.
With the mower bag finally empty and the garage floor covered in grass clippings, (about a quarter of the grass managed to get IN the yard waste bag) I was able to continue. And on it went, mow slightly less so that I could lift the bag, and dump, mow and dump.
Then the mower just stopped…
Was it out of gas? Did it need oil? The bag didn’t seem that full. I checked the oil level, it looked OK, but maybe it needed more. I went into the garage, there was no oil for the mower in there. Puzzled I went back to the mower. The machine didn’t feel hot, nothing smelled funny. So I decided to dump the bag and wait for the boy to come tell me what was wrong. As I pushed the mower toward the garage, GIANT piles of clippings came out from underneath. I realized our grass must be so long, and creating so many clippings that the mower got clogged. So I dumped again, and as I was dumping in to the 3rd yard waste bag, I discovered something uncomfortable.
NEVER WEAR A V NECK SHIRT WHEN MOWING THE GRASS
As I was dumping clippings into the bag, a good 1/8th of all bags of stuff was going down my shirt and clumping up in my bra…I had enough grass in my cleavage to start another lawn. I turned my back to the mocking neighbors and pulled several handfuls of grass out of my shirt. There was no way to get all the grass out of my bra without going topless.
I raked the pile of grass toward the driveway so that I was able to continue my task. I kept pushing the mower over the lawn with all my power. The self propelled action seemed to stop working completely, until I was walking downhill toward the gate to the back yard. Then it took all my power to keep the mower from rolling down into the fence.
Every muscle in my body was screaming, “You’re not a teenager anymore!” as I mowed the grass. My arms and legs ached, my back was feeling hunched. I longed to sit down with my frothy Diet Coke and remove my grassy bra.
At last, the final pass, the last blades of grass chopped to a reasonable length. I could finally see my flowers and the gnome under the tree in the middle of the yard. I looked around the cul-de-sac daring the neighbors to mock me now.
I HAD MOWED THE GRASS!
We were no longer the shaggy house on the street.
Then I remembered the back yard…
Yeah, not gunna do the back.
