Keeping It Real...And Not TOO Bloody
A few weeks ago, I regaled you all with the tale of my move to the sprawling but quite sub-Capuan suburban estate called Balsawood. Since that time, I have been growing accustomed to, and have become very wary of, some of the responsibilities that are attached to home ownership.
One of these has to do with lawn maintenance. Until last week, I hadn't mowed a lawn since I lived in my parents' house (no, Hugh, that wasn't just last year). It had to have been going on twenty years since I last pulled that rip cord and set myself upon the task of violently tearing the tops off thousands of precious blades of Mother Earth's own outdoor carpeting. I have to say that it felt good.
Nevertheless, as I was walking behind my brand new mower (complete with the innovative Personal Pace system, variable speed rear wheel drive and the patented Recycler cutting system...with an Atomic blade, mind you) on the slightly damp hill in my new backyard, I had a horrifying vision. I saw myself losing my footing on the hill and falling to the ground while watching several of my newly detached toes sail out of the mower's side discharge chute.
Just for the time being, I think I'm going to let the grass on that hill grow...because I'm all about the preservation of Mother Earth's fragile forest floor and all that, of course.
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