Our Lawn

Dear You,

Because I was away for the past two weeks, I returned to find a pile of accumulated mail and a lawn that resembled a meadow. The first was easier to deal with, since I could sit while I tossed credit card offers and solicitations for money in the wastebasket. The second, however, meant rolling up my sleeves.

I think it was the Stage Manager in Our Town by Thornton Wilder who observed that most men enjoy cutting their own lawns. No doubt he was saying something about the pride of ownership. In my case, however, having tended this particular lawn for the past 16 years, I really wouldn't regret to see its ownership passed to another.

Today I waited until the last sprinkle had faded and the sun had been out awhile before adjusting the wheels up a notch or two. Even so, I continually stopped, shut off the engine, tipped the beast sidewise and cleared the wad that refused to blow through the side discharge. An hour of that was enough -- the second hour challenged my fortitude.

There is something to be said about all manners of living -- and today I'm thinking how fine it is to have an apartment, leaving a landlord to cut the grass whenever he pleases.