Milk Jug Up To

There is snow up on the Gunks.  Yes, it is the ninth of May.  My wife thought it was frost but looking through the field glasses it’s easy to tell there as actually accumulation.  I had intended to write that, contrary to what I’d heard in the weather, it hadn’t snowed here, but there is now a squall in my back yard.  We had so little accumulation this year.  The people at Rock and Snow where I rented a pair of cross-country skis told me, we’ll call you if it gets to April and you haven’t returned.  I actually skied on April Eighteenth.  And now three weeks later, when everyone should be in tee-shirts, we have snow.  Nothing will accumulate, clearly.  Off to the left the sky couldn’t be more, blue.  But the weatherman called it.  Something large, polar and cold has made its way down to the northeast this morning

Mowing and snow shoveling was my teenage trade.  That’ how you could make money to buy albums.  We had a small yard in Pleasantville, and I’d mow it with one of those hand powered mowers with blades that turned cylindrically as you pushed it.  Arduous, but there was only so much lawn to mow.  Later, in Poughkeepsie, I graduated to a power mower with was easier but there was a lot more turf to chew.  If I remember correctly it would take me about ninety minutes to finish it all.  It was mostly flat and when I was done and if no one was looking I’d hold the gallon of milk jug up to my mouth and gulp at it generously. 

I’ve just finished an hour out on this lawn here.  Once again behind a push mower, it even easier than a bicycle to learn and remember. But this lawn is on an incline and you need to lug this thing up and across.  The patch I mowed today was sopping wet with the run off of a stream bed as well.  An hour’s worth gets about one fifty of the yard done.  That’s all I have time or energy for, at least on the patches that are on the steep, wet incline.

Today began to feel particularly arduous as I’m on day four of a fast.  I was feeling alright before I went out, fresh off of writing a few friends about the passing of Little Richard, singing “Lucile” to myself with made up lyrics as I went.  But now, I must say I am particularly tired having executed that on what is truly, an empty stomach.  A good tired, perhaps.  But not one which allows for much appetite for any more work. 

Saturday 05/09/20