The sky was a particularly deep shade of blue. I thought to share that observation with my wife, but figured she wouldn’t be able to hear me over the clunking-whir of the blades. Besides, she seemed to be a bit distracted trying to lift the riding mower off me without getting cut to pieces.
It’s a good life overall. Better, I think, than I’ve earned. When things get a bit boring, I remind myself that I have it a lot better than most other hairless apes on the planet. Hell, my dogs and cat have it better than most people. Helps keep things in perspective. But I do get bored with the humdrum at times. It’s what prompted me to traipse around the country and various parts of the world in my overspent youth.
These days, there is a lot less traipsing and a lot more laundry, pre-teen shuttling, and other related activities. All good overall, but there is definitely more than a tad of humdrum involved in some activities. So I’m regularly looking for ways to entertain myself. Sometimes that works out, sometimes not so much.
Like ending up pinned upside down under a riding mower.
Our old house had a big yard. Big enough that I proclaimed a ride-along mower was mandatory. My wife, on the other hand, thought a push mower and possibly a goat (she is a bit odd) would be more than sufficient for lawn care.
Full confession: I could have gotten away with that push mower, but visions of sipping cider as I casually gunned a mighty cutting beast would not be denied.
It was great. At first. But then a monotony set in. You know those nice straight lines you see on people’s lawns? Sure, they look classy in someone else’s yard, but driving in straight lines….back and forth…back and forth…humdrumminess out the yin-yang. I moved on to shapes and swirls and even took a go at making pictures, swooping around, grass faces (sort of) appearing as I went. That caused some consternation at home and probably with the neighbors. My blushing bride’s initial reaction was to compare the work to the “whacking by a blind, drunk person”. My reassurances that the images would fade quickly once the grass popped back up were met with continuous mutterings, but fortunately for me, she understands I have a creative soul that will not be denied.
And all was well. For a few weeks. A Swirl here, a swoop there. But one thing bugged. A minor thing, to be sure, but it poked at me, metaphorically, every time I got ready to mow. Before starting on my grass-art, I had to plod to the backyard and throw the play set swings up onto the top of the set and out of the way.
Every. Single. Time.
One mowing day I forgot, and as I made the turn from the front yard to the back, I saw the swings hanging down. Cursing, I put the mower in park, planning to jump down and deal with them.
That’s when the creative juices went into overdrive, and an alternate solution came to me. I’m sure it had nothing to do with it being an extra hot day and at that moment working my way through my third or sixth Strongbow cider to keep hydrated.
I leaned over to the mower floor and grabbed the wiffle ball bat I had picked up from the front yard. Preparing myself for battle, I slid the gearshift into high, shouted ‘Hi-Ho Silver’ and floored it.
The thrill! Flying across the yard at what must have been at least three miles an hour, wind whipping through my hair, I approached what I had mistaken for a play set but now could see was actually an evil knight, bent on destroying my homestead – He would not succeed!
I love the movie “A Knight’s Tale”. Love, treachery, battles… jousting. The pounding of the hooves as the two opponents near each other. The precision of the lance as the hero takes aim and knocks the bejesus out of the bad guy who flies through the air in slow-motion.
It looks a lot easier than it really is.
Or maybe my problem was trying to use a wiffle ball bat to push a slender swing chain up and out of the way just seconds before the front of the mower reached the swing.
It’s a question for the ages. What isn’t in question is what actually happened. Not only did I miss with my carefully aimed yet ultimately unsuccessful wiffle-lance blow, but the front of my steed fit precisely between the two swing chains with the seat itself forming a sling under the mower. Before I could react, the front end started lifting off the ground while the rear-drive wheels kept moving forward.
Newer mowers have an automatic shut-off. It’s to prevent accidents, of course, in case something causes the mower to not be perfectly horizontal or if it hits something. Rocks, I reckon, or maybe mowing on the side of a hill. I doubt the manufacturers test for swing sets.
Irrelevant in this case, anyway. My mighty mount was an ancient, eleventeen-times-rebuilt beast that had no time for safety features.
That lack popped into my head as the top of the swing set and that lovely blue sky came into view. Quicker than you can say “Riveted Rocinante” the mower was horizontal again. Unfortunately, it was as inverted as was I. And my hands, along with the rest of me, were pinned, the ignition key out of reach.
Luckily, Sancho, otherwise known as my spouse, was in the yard doing some trimming. I need
to reread Cervantes’s classic since I don’t remember the knight’s sidekick being quite so colorful in his language, but her never-ending stream of verbal concern warmed me. In hindsight, the warmth I felt might have been blood backing up in my crushed legs, but I’ll go with concern at this point. She managed to lift one side up just enough for me to get an arm free and turn the engine off.
As the blood flowed back into my limbs, Sancho counted her fingers then, I believe in an effort to reassure me they were all there, showed me both of her middle ones.
I’m not sure who broke first, but as we finished turning the beast back over, one of us began chuckling. Within seconds we both were, then we were on the ground, tears running down our faces and laughing about as hard as I, at least, have ever laughed. I suspect she has laughed at least as hard on a few other occasions since marrying me.
I really need to remind her how lucky she is to have such an entertaining husband.
A valid question a reader might ask at this point is: Did I ever do it again? After almost losing life and limb (times two), did I dare mount the steel stallion and do further battle against evildoers, real and otherwise?
If you know me in real life, there is no need to even ask.
Now excuse me, there’s a windmill with my name on it that I need to take care of.
*This piece was published a number of years ago in substantially the same form on a different site
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