Mow Hard, Mow Fast

I have bad rug mowing luck!

“Hi, my name is Linda.”

“Hi, Linda.”

“And I’m a, uh . . . an abuser.”

“Tell it to us, sister. Get it out!”

All Jammed Up!

I don’t abuse drugs, drink, porn, husband (much) or pre-natal vitamins. I abuse my lawnmower—not overtly. I mean I don’t pummel it with a tire iron or anything. I abuse our John Deere riding lawn tractor (because nothing runs like a deer) through my addictive, hateful indifference to it.

I’m so ashamed—also a little ticked off.

“This machine has been abused.” Those were the lawnmower fixer guy’s exact words, as he smeared grease around his hands with a green bandana. “We’ve got machines that are twenty years old that look better than your machine.”

Our lawnmower was three years old.

That’s the stinking excuse they used to reject our stinking extended warranty request to weld the stinking busted strut back to the part where all the whirly parts are; you know, the stinking whirly parts, the parts that do the actual cutting of grass.

My husband fixed an accusatory eye on me when he related the diagnosis—warranty, null and void—due to lawnmower abuse. Like all abusers, I attempted denial first.

“Sherwood, Babe, you know I always park that dumb lawnmower in the barn. It has never been outside when the tornados kick up.”

“Listen you! It’s not rain they’re talking about. It’s the stumps, tree roots, barbed wire, water faucets, welcome mats, hoses, bird carcasses, cement blocks, and three inch saplings that you’ve managed to run over.”

I tried anger next, of course.

“Well, anytime you want to climb aboard mister and mow in perfect, symmetrical rows exactly the width mentioned in the owner’s manual, you just get a running start and jump in the driver’s seat, because I don’t plan on slowing down long enough to switch out drivers; there’s a ton a grass out there.  And it’s growing, always growing, even when I’m sleeping—growing.” I stopped talking and tipped my head toward the grass. “Can’t you hear it? Growing. Pushing up, always up. Growing . . . up . . .”

He grabbed me by the shoulders and shook me, a little bit.

“Linda, you need help.”

“Darn right, I need help. I could use a full time lawn man guy. You know, driving Miss Linda.” I snapped this last bit out with more bravado than I felt.

“No, not that kind of help. I mean a support group, so you can work through some of this anger you have toward our lawn maintenance equipment,” he said.

I started to whine, which is the third phase in a lawnmower abuser’s cycle.

At that moment, the children filed into the room along with Cheryl and Mr. Medina, my neighbors, and the girl from the dry cleaners. I gasped. It was an intervention. I bowed my head and wept and not for the last time.

I liked to say that I have been clean and sober since the intervention, but not so much. Last weekend, due to bad luck and high weeds, I ran over the corner of a worn out rug I’d tossed on the family burn pile. The rug dissolved into a yarn rope, twisting around the lawnmower blade like a noose. The blade jammed. Grass cutting ceased. Cussing ensued. The cycle continued.

Linda (Blade Jammer) Zern

  

Life Lived in Silhouette

Unjamming the Lawn Mower Blade - Again!

When they print the new owner’s manual for the John Deere Turbo Grass Master 6000 Series, I will be one of the silhouette people in it with a thick, black line slashed across my silhouette face. The caption will read: Danger, Warning, Caution! Stupidity Alert.

I will be the international symbol for people who ride over a pine tree root and get the lawn mower blade jammed so tightly into that massive hunk of root that seven strong men on steroids could not lift me off.

The black silhouette person with the black line through it will be a representation of me sitting next to my wedged, stalled, jammed, trapped, lawn mower. It will show me leaning against a forty-foot pine tree, my cell phone to my ear—crying, me not the cell phone. The caption will read: Don’t Let This Happen To Your Silhouette!

I called my husband in Virginia. We live in Florida. He travels. I like to think that it’s because he has to for work, or he’s a spy.

“Honey,” I wailed. “I’m stuck.”

“What? Where? How? Who is this?”

“I got the new lawn mower stuck inside a pine tree . . . and I can’t move it.”

There was a pause. It was one of his long, slow, deliberate pauses, which being interpreted means: Why did I marry this woman?

“Inside? What? Never mind. Well . . . put the mower in reverse.”

Sob. Gasp. Wail.  “I can’t. The mower blade is stuck INSIDE the pine tree root. I had bad luck. The mower took a bad hop and the root was hiding.”

“Stuck INSIDE the pine tree root! Bad hop!” Which being interpreted means: You crazy woman, you ran our brand new, four thousand dollar riding lawn mower into a TREE.

“Can you push it off the root?” Which being interpreted means: You crazy woman, what do you expect me to do her in Virginia where I must travel to earn money to pay for lawn mowers that you run into trees or roots?

I wailed, “I can’t lift the lawn mower. I’m too little.”

I sounded five years old. I felt four years old.

For the next two hours I cried while digging a trench around the trapped lawn mower. I cried while scooping dirt from around the point of direct pine tree root and blade contact. I cried while hack sawing through the pine tree root.

I cried because pine trees are so tall. I cried because pine tree roots are so thick. I cried because I’m not strong enough to lift a riding lawn mower. I cried because grass grows and needs mowing. I cried because all my children are grown now and aren’t around to mow the grass. I cried because time passes. I cried because I said a bad word. I cried because the Bald Eagle in our backyard was staring at me from another pine tree waiting for to die. I cried for the sadness of being alive. I cried and I cried and I cried.

And that’s how I knew I’m menopausal.

When my son-in-law showed up to push me off the root that I had already hack sawed into two big hunks, he said, “I can’t believe you used a hacksaw on wood.”

I said, “Huh.”

“You should only use hacksaws on metal.”

I snapped back, “Why, because we have so many metal tree roots in the world?”

And that smart aleck comment was how I knew I was feeling better.

What I learned that week was how it’s not the trees that are the problem. The trees you can see. It’s the roots. They lurk. You never know when you’re going to get totally jammed up because of them.

Linda (Hacksaw) Zern

Death by Owner's Manual

The Author Clearing a Rug Jam From the Blade of Her Lawn Tractor
( No One Was Maimed in the Taking of this Picture!)

Note: In honor of our upcoming anniversary, I will be re-posting a series of anniversary/celebratory gift related essays. I don’t ask for diamonds. I don’t covet dangling loops of gold for around my turkey skin neck. I don’t ask for spa days or massages. I ask for and get John Deere lawn tractors and accessories from my soul mate. It’s our way. It’s our culture. It’s how we say, “I love you.” He buys the Deere.  I mow stuff.

DANGER: ROTATING BLADES CUT OFF ARMS AND LEGS; WARNING: AVOID SERIOUS INJURY OR DEATH; DANGER-CAUTION : POISON; DANGER: ROTATING BLADE – THROWN OBJECTS; DANGER: ROTATING BLADE; DEATH, DYING, DEAD!!!

This was on page one of my John Deere lawn tractor user manual.

This was on page one of my Valentine’s Day gift that I received from my sweetheart of thirty-two years.

My husband bought me a riding lawn mower, because nothing says romance like the smell of fresh cut grass, and the above warning was just the introduction of the owner’s manual. The next twenty pages explained the warning list in gruesome, gory detail—with pictures. Not real pictures of people poisoned because they drank riding lawn mower related fluids, but those black and white silhouette pictures that look like they were drawn by ancient (grass mowing) Egyptians in a real big hurry.

For twenty pages I was forced to look at silhouette people getting their silhouette toes, heels, arms, legs, heads, and fingers cut off. In addition to that there were tragic, gory silhouette drawings of stick people being crushed, maimed, poisoned, exploded, blinded, dragged, and burned to cinders by my Valentine’s Day gift.

There was even a silhouette picture of some anonymous soul slipping in a puddle of silhouette oil that might, maybe, could possibly leak out of the bottom of my new shiny lawn tractor. I don’t think the silhouette man made it.

All I was trying to figure out was how to start the stupid beast. By the time I found the information I needed, I was too afraid to turn the key.

I haven’t left the house since the John Deere man dropped off my John Deere lawn tractor with headlight action (for mowing in the dark—if you dare.) I want to call a lawyer and sue for pain and suffering caused by reading the owner’s manual, but I’m afraid if I pick up the phone my lawn tractor will have tapped into the main phone line to my house so that it can send a killing jolt of electricity into my inner ear wax. I’m afraid I’ll get ear tasered.

It’s out there, right now, in the garage leaking an enormous pool of deadly oil, hoping I will either lick it or slip in it.  I know it. I feel it. Its malevolence grows. It’s like having The Bride of Chucky parked next to the Nissan Titan.

And just this minute, I noticed that on the cover of the owner’s manual under the leaping deer silhouette logo are these words:  WARNING: THE ENGINE EXHAUST FROM THIS PRODUCT CONTAINS CHEMICALS KNOWN TO THE STATE OF CALIFORNIA TO CAUSE CANCER, BIRTH DEFECTS OR OTHER REPRODUCTIVE HARM. (CALIFORNIA PROPOSITION 65 WARNING)

What if it gets me pregnant?

Well that cinches it, next Valentine’s Day I’m going to ask my husband for something really romantic—like a suicide bomber vest. Honestly.

Linda (Mow Fast, Mow Hard) Zern