toro

My dad really enjoyed operating his lawnmower.  Not upon reflection as far as I recall.  Nor in any manner of zen and the art of motor maintenance.  He just did. 

He'd wait for a Saturday, or sometimes he'd come home a bit early on Fridays from work.  He'd shed his dry-cleaned financial attire, which did make him feel good and successful, but I think he needed those unsuccessful cut off jeans and the smell of gasoline.  Don't we all.

  

Several grow zones separate me now from the north and its Kentucky bluegrass.  Here backyard fences "keep out", and landscaping is left to barking dogs.  Lawns commonly are nutsedge, clover, and other weeds that, if you wait a week, suddenly bear sticker burrs.  Fire ants are in there too, sadly.  So when I drag out my mower I prepare for a kind of battle.  Sometimes I wear goggles.

Last weekend when my own mower wouldn't start, I tried to act cool.  I do have neighbors now, from England of all places, who have a direct view into my backyard.  What do they possibly think of this ungentle lawn care? 

After some time contemplating my next move, I decided to invite my father in-law to examine my mower, which as I'd expected, he enjoyed.  All did seem lost after still no success until I ratcheted out the spark plug, cleaned it, and put it back...exactly like a mechanic. 

That joy lasted all weekend.  And I thought about that spark plug, smilingly, and the many metaphors it holds.  But until I better understand what a spark plug really is, I'm going to resist.

Lawn-mowing though is a very plain joy whose running engine blocks out the noise of life's problems for just a couple hours.