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Yardwork |
| Written by chris | |
| Tuesday, 22 July 2008 | |
 One more time. What I would have given for the chance to mow the grass there just one more time. On an August morning, if I could choose, when you could still feel the captured Mississippi heat from the previous day in the dew as you pushed the rotating jaws of the mower through the stubborn blades quickly (but not too quickly) so as to get back inside before the summer sun could unleash a new attack on the already-baked town. Inside, cool sweet tea in tall glasses waited for us on the counter. Of course we couldn't sit at the table until after we'd showered off the clippings, grime and other marks of summer childhood. Between gulps, we would let Mom know just how hot it was outside. Surely she didn't quite understand; the fact that she had sent us out there in the first place was proof enough of that. And that Dad would never buy a gas-powered mower did not make our jobs easier. Our numerous protests and pleadings did little to pursuade him to ditch the dinosaur for a Craftsman; the old man even seemed to pride himself on the fact that our lawn was the only one in the neighborhood to display that rougher look of one done by suffering children pushing that outmoded contraption. Contrary to Dad's opinion, I was always convinced that it stole more fun than any amount of character he insisted it would impart. Oh, we complained alright. We let them know just how unfair this chore was, despite knowing deep down that it only bolstered their commitment to make such wonderful young men out of us.
I used to be thankful for my upbringing. I always carried on the cliche that I was somehow more virtuous or appreciative or humble or any of those other niceties that a proper, unspoiled childhood was supposed to impart. But now, as I started the mower one last time, I became resentful. How sick is it that my best memories from childhood are those which I hated? Why was I waxing nostalgic over a task that brought me nothing but grief as a kid? Before I could stop myself, I was blaming my parents again. I felt as if I had been duped into treasuring somebody's twisted notion of goodness. Why was I the only one affected? Why did they choose to move in with me? I have a family too. Why am I the only one of the three of us who couldn't say no? Why am I the only one here? My shoes will never shake the sloppy green clippings, this lawnmower hardly still qualifies as functional, I'm hurting muscles that haven't been hurt in over 20 years. Why is it me, miserable sweaty dirty stinky me - the only person who could make the trip down to cut the grass...
Copyright 2008 chris |
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| Last Updated ( Tuesday, 22 July 2008 ) |
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