mowing the lawn...

Last night after getting home from work I decided that I had to mow the lawn. It was bad, the weeds were growing up past my knees. It had rained for almost a solid week, which is bad for mowing in two ways,
1. the grass grows faster because of the water
2. it is impossible to mow because it is wet
So I change out of my work clothes, put on shorts, a white tank top, and my sturdy hiking sandals, and set out to mow. I start where I always do, plowing along in a straight line next to the road, but keeping a careful watch out for the large sticks and stones that run off the road into our yard during hard rain. The mower stalls a bit in the thick weeds, and I pulled it back to the cement path to restart it. This time I cut through the center of the yard where the grass is dryer and thinner and the mower cranks along beautifully. I come back through the yard and head back up to the road again, and proceed along nearing the busy corner, the luxury cars of Hershey flying by. I go over another thick and high patch of weeds, and hear a dreaded loud thump, and the mower stops. Dead stops. I have killed my mower I say inside my head, and pull it back away from the road. There is something protruding from beneath it and I turn it over on it's side like a horse lying down in pain. There is something twisted around the blade, and it is brown and long and strange. I nudge it with my foot, and dislodge it. I nudge it again as it lies on the grass and then stoop to pick it up and only when I smell it do I realize what it is. It is a dead thing, a carcass of something entirely unidentifiable. I hold it away from me by the tips of my fingers and walk down the hill grumbling and indignant and throw it in the bushes thinking that I must find a man who will do this for me. I must, it is no longer an option. This is unacceptable. But I come in to the kitchen and wash my hands and glance out the window. The lawn is unmowed, the mower is still lying on it's side out in the grass, and I know what I must do.
I walk out again into the sunlight, picturing my shoulders being bronzed by the sun and thighs flexed as I push though the weeds. I am like Joan of Arc going into battle or the goddess Hera glorious in her rage, or the Proverbs matriarch whose arms are strong for her tasks. I tilt the mower up and again walk back to the path. I hold the pull cord in my hand and pull with all my might. There is a small puff of blue smoke and the handle begins to vibrate and the blade begins to turn. We set out once again, now a team working in perfectly in unison. We know all of the nuances of this lawn, we know where the thick juicy grass is, where we must go slowly. We know where the dips are and where there is an old, broken headlight laying by the road, from some long past accident on the corner. We know where the mint grows, because ground under the blade it smells like all of the sweetness of summer. On and on we go, back and forth, the tips of my toes turning green, and sweat collecting on my back. The lawn if finished again for this week. Kelly finished this morning what I left, and I turned to washing the dishes. And that is another story, but I used to think a wild unmowed lawn, soft and feathery, was lovely, but now, just like seeing a pile of newly washed dishes stacked high in a drying rack, the sun shining and rippling through clear, wet glass, I am amazed at how strikingly beautiful straight rows of short cropped lawn can be.