Our grass needed to be cut, but I had been putting the chore off for some time (excusably so, in my humble opinion, as my ankle is still a bit on the sprained side). This afternoon, I was sitting on the couch reading when I heard the sound of a lawnmower in the back yard. I limped to the window and saw my wife mowing the lawn. What a gal.
I reflected on this and was reminded of the deadbeat lawnmowing men in my paternal genetic lineage. I have never seen my father with a lawnmower, and the quantifiable reason why, I am told, goes a little something like this.
My folks were newlyweds and had just bought a house. My mother, whose father had been the primary lawnmower in his household, expected my father to be the primary lawnmower in his. She made the expectation clear to him. Apparently too proud to tell her that he had never before mowed a lawn, my father obeyed marching orders and went outside to cut the grass.
Moments, then minutes of silence passed. After some time, it seemed strange to my mother that no mower noise could be heard. When she peered through her window, she was shocked at what she saw: my father, sitting cross-legged in the grass. He apparently could not get the darn thing to start, and was sitting with the mower, blade-down, on his lap, tugging at the pull cord with all his might.
My mother burst forth from the front door, shouting, “No! No! No! Stop!!!”
Thankfully, he heeded her new command and stopped what he was doing; for this I am eternally grateful. Had he been successful in starting the mower and gotten those blades a turnin’ above his lap, I would surely not be here to blog about it.
He has never again attempted to mow the lawn. Probably a good thing.