LETTERS From CAMP Rehoboth |
CAMPOut: Learning to Shift for Ourselves |
by Fay Jacobs |
It was inevitable. Like day following night, like Black and Decker attracting lesbians, like bears pooping in the woods, Bonnie got herself a big, shiny riding lawnmower. The thing is asleep in the garage as I write, and I'm trying to reconstruct the series of events that led to my capitulation in the mower wars. I'd held out as long as I could, but in the final analysis my futile argument for not having one of those things was mowed and mulched asunder. I blinked first. The final chapter in my tractorless life dawned last Saturday, after a month of monsoons (I don't know if this is the wettest summer on record, but the hills are alive with the smell of mildew. My leaky car is a terrarium on wheels. Weather.com has said, "Scattered thunderstorms, some severe, appear likely across the mid-Atlantic today..." continuously since July. And exactly what is a 50% chance of rain? It might and it might not? Or it's definitely going to rain half the day? But, I digress...). The grass was as high as an elephant's eye and clearly something had to be done. Renting a squad of goats was not an option, nor was, as Blanche DuBois would say, relying on the kindness of strangers. Ever since Bonnie's been sporting that big fancy knee brace, our friends, relatives and house guests have been pitching in to mow our half-acre field of dreams. As grateful as we've been, I began to feel we were teetering over the abyss into taking advantage. But trust me, when I told Bonnie it might be time for us to shift for ourselves, I did not mean on a riding mower. Unfortunately, her crafty mind made the leap. Then she was able to illustrate the amount of money we would actually save over the next decade by not paying a lawn service. You gotta give the girl credit. She'd borrowed a page right from my Bloomingdale's play book. While our house guests watched, Bonnie headed out the door. My friend Kathy consoled me, but then her husband Ross, who'd secretly love a riding mower of his own, headed off to join Bonnie in our family truck. They were on a quest for a previously owned yard machine. They returned with a large ugly machine in the truck bed and a rent-a-ramp to get the thing down onto our lawn. Ugh, it was repulsive, with a ripped seat and rusty gears, not to mention the remnants of somebody else's lawn hanging all over its bottom. "But it was cheap," said Bonnie. Off she went for a test drive. She and Ross got it started, but sparks immediately spit from the side, followed by a black cloud of smoke from the engine. "What's black smoke mean?" I asked Kathy. "We haven't elected a Pope." After a few more explosions and gear-stripping shrieks, Bonnie and Ross pushed the offending conveyance back up the rent-a-ramp into the truck and out of our lives. Actually, in a case of impressive timing, the guys across the street saw the mower exiting stage left and announced they'd just bought a riding mower themselves, which we were welcome to borrow. In fact, in an effort to practice their skills, they offered to mow our lawn while we returned the used heap of junk. Fabu. Life was good again. We came back to find our half acre mowed magnificently, leaving us only two tasks: trimming and raking up the grass shards all over the lawn. I chose raking over weed whacking as I had no desire to travel the north forty to the tune of "buzz, buzz OW... buzz, buzz. OW... buzz, buzz. OW..." Instead, I volunteered to bend over and stuff clippings into plastic bags. I became a living tableau of that nasty lawn ornament of the old lady bending over, butt in the air, hosiery around the ankles. The Maltese Hiney. Don't bend over in the garden granny, you know them taters got eyes. It was not a pretty picture. But I was happy. We had a neighborhood lawn mowing coalition and I wouldn't have to own my own farm equipment. I should be so lucky. Bonnie tapped me on the shoulder, pointed at our neighbor and his mower and said, "Look." He sat spit-shining and buffing the thing like it was a '39 Studebaker. I half expected him to lead it into the garage, give it a bag of oats and kiss it goodnight. "I can't borrow his mower," Bonnie moaned. "I'll get it dirty." She was right. The pressure to support his mower in the style to which it would become accustomed would be way too much to bear. My luck she'd hit a deer, or crash the thing into the house, ride through the dining room and crumple its fender. By breakfast the next morning, figuring I was doomed anyway, I made my pitch. "If I was going to get a mower, it would be a mulching mower so, nobody (mainly me) would have to bend over and pick up grassy schmutz." That was all Bonnie needed. She grabbed my hand and dragged me off to Lowe's. Procrastinating has it's rewards. If we'd bought a riding mower at the beginning of the season when Bonnie first started campaigning, it would have cost us more. By late August we found a reconditioned machine with a two-year warranty and a nice price tag. Huzzah. We returned home and Bonnie and Ross spent the rest of the afternoon playing like giddy little kids at the Midway Go-Kart park. I've never seen two adults have more fun with something with a motor (don't go there). They were in lawn-care heaven. Meanwhile, Kathy and I sat on the deck, drinking margaritas, noting the absolute parity between gay and straight unions, and wondering why on earth riding mowers have headlights. So Bonnie got her mulching dream machine, I don't have to rake clippings, and Old Landing Road traffic has been spared the distraction of my butt waving in the air. Is that the end of the story? I don't think so. I'm certain Bonnie will be wanting accessories and I don't mean pearls and purses. We're talking baggers and snow plow blades. So now I own a truck and a tractor. My Manhattan citizenship and ethnic heritage credentials are in terrible jeopardy. Not only that, but it's 8:30 at night and riding mower headlights are shining in the window at me from across the street. I went to tell Bonnie about it and found her in the garage visiting our new family member. Boys will be boys and girls will be girls. Fay Jacobs, a Vice Versa award winning columnist, is a regular contributor to Letters from CAMP Rehoboth. You can find more of her CAMPOut columns at www.camprehoboth.com. |
LETTERS From CAMP Rehoboth, Vol. 10, No. 12, Aug. 25, 2000. |