I need a few goats.
In other words, my lawn needs mowing. The grass is tall with weeds – giving my lawn that “creepy-a-hermit-must-there” appearance. But it’s either too cold or too hot. And I’m sensitive to heat, thanks to my anticonvulsants.
My excuse for waiting this long? It was for the bees. Since the dandelions have turned to fluffs, there’s no excuse – except the weather and time of day. Yes, I’ll be the one pushing the town’s noise by-law.
During my adolescent summers, my older sister and I were given the daunting task of cutting my parents’ yard. For two days, we trimmed and pruned my parents’ acreage to perfection. Totally child labour, a.k.a., I wanted to spend my summers watching Days of Our Lives, biking to Hnausa, and writing.
But, there we were – cutting the lawn. My sister and I would trade-off with the riding and push mower. The push mower wasn’t bad, except ducking under caraganas and tamaracks – and I was a magnet for wood ticks.
Continue reading “Tales Of A Riding Mower – It Was The Wheelbarrow’s Fault”