FREE STUFF

So, today I'm attemptin' to put the beat-down on this three acres or so of lumpy, former tobacco field that now serves as my yard.  

I figure I'll mow the patch down along the creek first;  That's where the grass is highest.  And there's a coupla places along the bank where sobriety can be a plus, seein' as how windin' up in the creek with this big ol' mower on top of my skinny ass would almost certainly destroy my weekend... If it didn't kill me.

Anyway, with my early-in-the-season zeal, I manage to slide down into the creek bed on the very first pass.  

Fortunately, it happens to be in the spot where the bank is the lowest.  

Unfortunately, there's also a shitloada rock that's been deposited exactly here by the recent deluge, and I drop in hard- blades a'churnin', slate rock splinterin' and scatterin' like organic shrapnel.  

But, I am the captain of my ship.  

With a slow motion Dixie Chopper drift, I maintain correct orientation, (wheels down), and spin 'round in a tight circle in the shallow, mossy water.  After after a few attempts, PTO disengaged, I ultimately scale and bounce back up over the creek bank.  Back to where the grass is.  On my mower...

I continue on with the mowin' of this little patch and notice that the mower ain't fared so well durin' my unintentional foray into micro-terraformin'.  Those few seconds of plowin' into a pile of stones have rendered my blades no more than dull, spinnin' slabs of steel.  Like giant butter knives.

Undaunted, I push forward.  

Now, however, the longer, thicker blades of grass withstand the attack of my Compromised, Gas-powered Machine of Mayhem,  bendin', then poppin' right back up, practically unscathed. 

A worthy adversary, indeed.

I decide to let it be what it will be- bust out this patch as best I can, then return to the house and commence with the ritual Sharpenin' of the Blades.  No one comes down here but me, anyway.

As I run the edge of the stand of trees that separates the higher land from the creek bottom, I see the wildflowers- protected from my onslaught by the small understory trees and bushes- that spring up every year.  Some are the result of the re-seedin' of perennials that I scattered years ago. Others are things that occur regardless of me.

This causes me to think, as I'm rollin' and whippiin' on my Smoke-Belchin' Noisemaker,  about the these little things- these little things that I have the good fortune to witness this time of year: tiny flowers- so precious, fragile.  Beautiful.  Just what is it that makes these colors and forms so pleasin' to gaze upon, to study intently with no real purpose or goal?  What explanation is there?

I got nothin'.

Seasons will change, petals will drop, foliage will fade.  Stem, stalk and leaf will ultimately wither and vanish.  And these things, fleetin' and wonderful as they are,  will somehow be pushed down, buried beneath a mass of work and worry. Things to do.  People to see.  The Suffocatin' Minutiae of the Day.  

Should I have the good fortune to survive another cycle, find myself witness to this recurrin' miracle once more- the colors, the fragrances- the feelin' will be resurrected.  

And I'll wonder to myself just how in the Hell I ever allowed the experience and the resultin' memories to sink so deep, even if only temporarily.  And I'll find a degree of comfort in the knowin' that, at least for now, these things will continue to take place, should I happen to live to once again bear witness, or not.

Forgive me- got to ramblin'.  Gonna take a shot of the Clear, jam a dark beer, then climb back on this damn machine and get back to the task at hand....

~Fish