Equipment or Other Patrons

My wife was cutting the grass with a pair of hedge shears.  That’s absurd I thought, looking out at her.  Yes, the grass has been getting long.  Yes, it been a while. More than a while.  But honey, this is just a colossal waste of time.  I should be doing the lawn.  But I’m overwhelmed with work.  The guys who we pay to do our lawn should be doing the lawn.  But they are forever delayed by rain or broken equipment or other patrons.   And all the while the lawn grows and grows. 

OK.  Honey, I’ll go get some gas for the mower.  Last year I’d loaded up the beast after having it fixed.  It took weeks for the grumpy repair people to fix the blade.  This, after I’d thudded it over a big root. I brought it back, filled it with the remainder of the old gas tank in the garage and it went for five minutes and conked out.  Our former neighbor who was by not long after suggested I turn it over, dump the old gas and start again.  So, I filled the five gallon drum at the station, got some groceries and some wine for my wife, who’d requested as much and returned back home. 

 

Filled the tank, pulled the cord, and got, nowhere.  Again.  Again.  Again, again.  Nope.  Nothing turning on this beast.  I dreaded returning to the surly shop.  All I could think of was spark plugs.  Must be spark plugs.  What the hell do I know?  Could be.  Can you just buy spark plugs at Lowes?  Over on the side of the garage was a weed-whacker.  I took that out and tried to start that and, wonderfully, after four or five tugs it came to life, and I strutted around back to where my wife was shearing the grass and introduced her to this evolutionary step forward in yard tools. 

She loved it.  Used it.  Till it conked out.  I started it again.   She used it again, delightedly, until it stopped.  I started it again.  Back in the house I started to put away the groceries, my limitless Sunday evaporating into the late afternoon.  My daughter was on the easy chair reminding me that I’d promised her I’d help her with her paper.  Sure.  And just as I was considering the future of the American Constitution, my wife knocked at the window, and angry expression:  She had been calling me.  Hadn’t I heard?  She needed me to start the weed whacker again. She gestured down in the yard. I snapped.  Bring here and I’ll do it.  We got into a useless exchange of men’s work and women’s work, and I cursed the guys who were supposed to be here, doing the lawn for a fee.

 

 

 

Sunday, 05/23/21