This is the third spring in my tiny house. I realized that yesterday, as I mowed my grass. The first spring, I had to hire a lawn service. I had no mower and a broken right wrist. The little boys next door volunteered to mow for half the price of the service, and found out what hard work it was. Their older brother and dad took over until fall.
Last spring, my lake friends gave me a lawn mower. I never could get it to start by battery, but with that spray stuff, I was able to get the mower engine to crank by pulling that stringy thing. I liked mowing my own grass, though by late September, I was happy to take the season off and rake leaves instead.
A shift occurred this year. I observed it quickly. When mowing season started, I felt the difference. All the small events that would have figuratively tossed me upside-down two seasons ago, I dealt with easily. First time out, I ran out of gas (and oil) mid-lawn. I drove down to the Exxon with my little red can. I got the oil for the 2-cycle engine, mixed it in the proper proportions, and finished the job.
Second time out, I had no more starting fluid, and couldn’t pull the cord hard enough to get the engine to turn over. Off I went to Ace Hardware. Mission accomplished. Lawn looks great.
When I was in the throes of loss, the tiniest setback seemed like the most insurmountable trauma. Time is the great fixative. I’m so glad to be here, and so grateful for the time I’ve had to mend and to feel normal.
Now I just have to figure out how to get my new lawn mower battery charged. Turning a key will be ever so much easier than the spray-and-yank method of starting that good ole’ Lawn Boy.