lawn mowing at 18

I was posted up on the sofa in the living room, suffering mild hangover and recovering from an hour of copy and pasting data for my daddy, which I had been summoned to do from my slumber. Super Troopers has been on my DVR for some time from IFC, read: no commercials and unedited. I was at the part when the rookie cop comes out of his locker covered in shaving cream, when, in the yard I heard the turbo engine of our Snapper lawn mower and knew, without moving from my lounge position, the image beyond the window, one that I have been familiar with since early childhood: my daddy mowing the lawn. Sunburned and drenched in perspiration, with no remorse for the large sticks that he was too lazy to throw into the neighbor’s yard before mowing, he was in control of the Category 3 hurricane powered by the blades. I was actually laughing out loud at my mental image of the scenario when the engine cut off and the rhetorical question from daddy came, “ Sara, do you want to earn $20?” “Yeah, maybe if I were 12.” But I didn’t say this because I like eating the food in the kitchen. All of my “jobs” are things that my daddy doesn’t want to do, as in he thinks, “This sucks. I’ll tell Sara to do it and I won’t have to.” Mowing the grass is a chore for a little boy who wants to earn enough money to buy his next video game, not a self-absorbed 18-year-old like myself, thank you.

Into the yard I obediently went. Oh, a new mower. Yes, a learning session with daddy. My favorite part is that these take 10 years longer than necessary because things must be explained in great detail. I wouldn’t figure out that when you pull the lever towards the cartoon picture of the hare (not rabbit), you go faster. While showing me how hard you have to press the clutch with your foot, he of course, pressed it too hard and temporarily “busted it”. This was followed by an episode of embarrassment, then a bout of anger until the mower was running and I was in control of the storm. I couldn’t help but smile. As I circled the yard in no particular order, leaving Mohawks of grass all over the place, Daddy was glowing with pride. It was the first time that I was allowed to mow the grass since I was 14 and wild, and hit the fence. This time, I hit nothing but my own car because I run with the hares, baby. No damage done, thanks to my lesson on the clutch.

My favorite part about the mower is its name, Snapper. Such a cute little grass-eater. Err, slash toad-eater. I also like the safety feature that shuts the mower off when you lift off of the seat. So if you lean forward to readjust your shorts because you’re sweating your butt off and its sticking to the dusty, vinyl seat, the engine shuts off and you are forced to imagine your own body being thrown from the mower at hare speed and the blades chopping you into pieces for the toads. That is after all, the reason for said safety feature.

What a way to spend an hour… and earn Mr. Jackson.